Morsus
by Replacement for the Stars
Summary: Harry Potter has been missing for eleven years. Nobody seems to be searching for him except for the three people that should not care. Established MF/HP, eventual MF/HP/SS; Established LM/DM, eventual LM/DM/TRJ. SLASH. Series compatible.
1. Once Lost, Now Found Morsus, Ch1

**Disclaimer: I own naught.**

**Warnings:** Slash, of the extreme and incestuous variety. Series compatible; ignores epilogue and any actions of Harry after the death of Voldemort.  
**Pairings:** Established Marcus Flint/Harry Potter, eventual Marcus Flint/Harry Potter/Severus Snape; Established Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy, eventual Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy/Tom Riddle Flint.  
**A Note:** Snape will be referred to the name of the visage he is currently in; Samael Prince=Severus Snape, and vice versa.

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_**Morsus  
**_**By: Bucket/Replacement for the Stars/filthyfreedom**

Chapter One:  
Once Lost, Now Found  
Year: **2009  
****Eleven Years Missing**

_I once was lost but now am found  
_'Amazing Grace', John Newton

(O.o)

The three men stood on the front walk of the cabin, within breathing distance of the freshly stained wood door—a closed can of Muggle wood dark stain, with a still-wet brush laid crossways on top, sat a foot away from the door—and the youngest shifted nervously. The elder blond man, hair down to the middle of his back, lifted his snake-head cane and rapped loudly on the door. The black haired man glanced at the slight stain left on the steel of the head of the snake and it disappeared.

A deep voice rumbled from the depths of the house: "Dobb—_Donald_, get the door!" A lightly audible huff of irritation followed the voice and the black haired man turned his head as a child's soft giggle sounded from the forest surrounding them.

An enthusiastic squeak responded to the deep voice and soft footsteps padded to the door, which slowly opened, revealing a man of short stature and rather impressively house-elf like features. The man squeaked again as he laid eyes upon the three men, three pairs of eyebrows twitching skyward as the glamour of the butler vanished, revealing the once Malfoy house elf Dobby. Dobby squeaked again and fled, crying, "Master Harry! Master Harry! There ares _visitors_!"

The three men waited patiently, flashing one another vaguely amused glances, and after a few minutes of waiting, a dirty Harry Potter—scar visible when he pushed back his fringe—strode up to them, tiredness sagging his features as his vivid green eyes landed on his not entirely unexpected visitors. The man sighed and rubbed his palms on his dirty blue t-shirt and flashed his eyes to the ceiling. He no longer looked the personification of James Potter that he had been in his school years; his features were more angular, calloused by the years that had taken their toll, and the black haired man shifted slightly uncomfortably.

"Lucius and Draco Malfoy, and…" the green eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the black haired man. "I thought you were dead," he intoned dully, green eyes locking with amused grey-black. "I watched you die."

The black haired man smirked thoughtfully. "I was unfortunately brought back to life, Mr. Potter—" Harry flinched violently and immediately shook his head.

"I am no longer a Potter," he told them, but did not explain; the three men on his front walk exchanged curious glances. They had been researching Harry's disappearance for two years; a name change had never been found.

The black haired man inclined his head slightly, eyes still locked with Harry's. "I was in a coma for nearly a year. Drastically unfortunate."

Dobby peered around a corner and gave a sound resembling a mixture of an '_eep_' and a strangled scream; he disappeared again and Harry shook his head tolerably, moving into the small hallway directly to the right of the door. "Come in, then." He waved them in with his left hand; a thin band of gold glimmered from his ring finger and the black haired man's eyebrows lifted as they stalked past Harry Potter. Harry whirled on the door and softly shut it, sighing with an emotion in his eyes that resembled sadness.

He followed the three men to the sitting room, throwing himself in a heavily used arm-chair, waving the men to sit on the couch; Draco and Lucius settled themselves next to one another and the man that Harry had known as Severus Snape perched himself on the arm-chair directly across from Harry, knees almost touching the long, low coffee table. "What do I call you?" Harry sighed, green eyes flicking to the black haired man; now, he could see the glamour that covered the man, smoothing his features into a man that looked rapidly unrecognizable. Harry much preferred the visage of the man he had grown to know during his seven years at Hogwarts, a realization that was slightly disturbing.

He flashed a smirk at Harry. "Samael Prince."

Harry rolled his eyes. "After the archangel? Interesting."

The three men exchanged curious glances as…Samael nodded and pressed his knees together. Harry's eyes flicked over the two Malfoy's sitting on his couch; he had never expected to have _Malfoy_ sitting pleasantly in his sitting room without exchanging furious and spitting vitriol words. He had forgiven Draco Malfoy eleven years ago, forgiven everyone in the Wizarding world that had somehow wronged or hated or detested him. It no longer mattered. He had killed Voldemort. That's all that mattered to the Wizarding world, and he had left after he had done what mattered. The tense silence elevated as Harry looked between Draco and his father, eyes flashing with amusement. Something thumped loudly upstairs and Harry rolled his eyes again; three pairs of eyes flicked up to see if something or someone would come crashing down on them. Finally, he snapped out, surprising the three Slytherins—hell, he lived with two of them, he knew how to deal with Slytherins now—with his tone, "What do you three want?"

Lucius smirked. "You disappeared from the Wizarding world"—Harry sighed softly and pushed to his feet, striding quickly to the alcohol cabinet he and his husband made sure to keep well stocked; he poured himself a full tumbler of Ogden's and then returned to his seat, not bothering to put the bottle back as he sipped mildly on the whisky—"eleven years ago."

"I'm aware of that," Harry bit out, jaw clenched. He had known this day was going to come—when someone in the Wizarding world decided that he couldn't stay lost any longer—and had thought himself well prepared for it. As evidenced, he was not. Then again, it could be the fact that the man he had grieved for—for _eleven fucking years_—was apparently not fucking dead. He scowled at the ceiling and took a deep swallow of the whisky, pleased as it burned a satisfying trail down his throat. "I am presumed dead for good reason. Harry Potter no longer exists."

Draco scowled at him and crossed his arms haughtily over his chest. His father gently patted his son's knee; Harry watched curiously as he restrained from gently petting Draco's thigh and he restrained from snorting amusedly into his whisky. "_You're_ Harry Potter," Draco informed him, as if he didn't _fucking_ know.

Harry snarled at them, tossing his three-fourths full tumbler on the table and the whisky sloshed over the side of the cut glass, melting onto the scarred wood as Harry shoved himself to his feet. Samael discreetly pulled out his wand; Harry saw but ignored the movement, hoping the man wasn't actually _that_ stupid. "I'm fucking well aware of who I am, Malfoy," Harry spat. "My name is no longer Potter. I already bloody informed you of that."

Lucius gave Samael a discrete nod and the man lifted his wand, murmuring _Legilimens_ under his breath. His invasion impacted into solid steel walls but Harry let out a small shriek of pain at the agony of the remembrance of his lessons in fifth year with his horrendous man. Oh, now he remembered why he had detested Snape so much—the man was a right bastard.

A hulking, massive form appeared in the doorway and steel grey eyes flickered between the quaking form of his husband and the raised wand of an unfamiliar black haired man. He let loose a rumbling growl—nobody touched what was his!—and the two men on the couch spun around to see a tall, muscular man barrel into their long-time family friend and break the spell by throwing the man's wand on the ground, where it rolled under the couch. He held the man to the wall with a muscular forearm held diagonal across the dangerously thin chest and a meaty hand pressed to the man's thin neck.

Harry nearly fell over, quivering violently—no one had invaded his mind in years; the residual mental pain felt similar to the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse—and tired emerald eyes landed on the form of his infuriated husband. Harry grunted slightly and grabbed the tumbler of whisky from the near center of the coffee table and gulped down a few mouthfuls, ignoring the inwardly terrified looks on the Malfoy's faces, and dropped the tumbler, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The thick, rumbling voice was somehow familiar to both Malfoy men, and Samael frowned as he gasped against the hand pressing against his windpipe. "You dare hurt what is _mine_," the imposing man growled, "I kill those who hurt what is mine."

Harry sighed and moved over to his husband, ignoring the frantic flails of the man pressed against the wall. He set a small hand to his husband's arm and murmured, "Marcus. It's alright, love. He was checking to see if I was an imposter."

Harry's husband turned his head and looked down at him, nodding slightly and dropped Samael—but not before threateningly squeezing the hand around the man's neck one more time—and moved to Harry, roughly pulling the younger man to him and tightening his arms as hard as he dared. He lowered his head and roughly claimed the Gryffindor's lips in his own, Harry humming happily into his husband's mouth as Samael nearly fell to his knees, one hand pressed lightly to his rapidly bruising neck as he coughed.

After a few moments of frantic, claiming kissing, Harry's husband lifted his head and glared furiously at the two Malfoys sitting on his couch. "What are they doing here?" he growled, baring large, crooked teeth that, when his mouth was closed, were almost visible as they pressed against the inside of his lips.

"They found me," Harry murmured softly, peering around his husband to look concernedly at Samael, who was quickly regaining his breath as he furiously straightened, one hand still touching his bruising throat. Harry shrugged at him. "Shouldn't have tried that," he told Samael, and the Potions Master snarled softly.

Harry pulled slightly away from his husband and, one hand petting the Slytherin's muscled side, turned both of them so that his three visitors could see his beloved's face. "This is my husband, Marcus Flint," he introduced, and three chiseled jaws fell open in shock.

Marcus snorted, picking Harry up and throwing his massive body into the chair Harry had recently vacated, wrapping the smaller man in his long arms as he curled up in Marcus's lap. "Malfoy," he said, tilting his head slightly to the boy who had been the Seeker on his Quidditch team, and his grey eyes flicked to the man that had bought them all Nimbus 2001s when his annoying-as-hell son had been made Seeker. His head swung to lock on the man that had tried to rape _his_ Harry's mind, and he spat out, "Who the hell is that?"

Harry curled up in Marcus's strong arms, clenching his left hand in Marcus's own, their rings pressing to one another and the incomplete bond flashing not entirely unpleasantly through them. He trusted Marcus with his life, had for years; of course he did, he had married the admittedly unpleasant man six-and-a-half years ago. "Severus Snape," he sighed, and the Potions Master flinched violently as he threw himself into the seat across from the couple, glaring furiously at Marcus, still gingerly fingering his throat. "Also known as Samael Prince."

Marcus grunted. "Dumb name."

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes, meeting Draco's widened grey eyes—his mind automatically compared the differences in the shades between Draco's and Marcus's: Marcus's eyes were a warm, heated steely grey that burned whenever he looked at Harry, while Draco's were a cool, flinch-inducing grey, the exact same shade as his father's eyes—and waited for the outburst. He didn't have to wait long. "Flint?" Draco cried; apparently, eleven years did nearly nothing for his year-mate's maturity, Harry noted. He nodded slowly. "How the hell...you and _Flint_?"

Harry shrugged elegantly, flicking his hand at the tumbler and cradling it against his chest as it shot into his hand. Marcus grumbled pleasantly at the show of wandless magic; seeing Harry so capable with magic had always been a huge, well, arousal point for him. Knowing that his little Harry was so powerful secretly made Marcus ache; he had never been magically powerful and had long ago made up for it in sheer physical power. Harry's magic was just one of the things that made Harry _his_; Harry had never been comfortable showing off his wandless abilities before Marcus had entered his life. "You three are not the first to find me."

Marcus smirked triumphantly and wrapped his arms all the tighter around his precious husband. If these bastards thought they were going to take what was _his_ back to the Wizarding world, they had another damn thing coming.

(O.o)

Year: **2007  
****Nine Years Missing**

Lucius absently pet the soft blond hair beneath his hand as he flicked through the documents on his desk—forms for a reinstatement of an old law that permitted incestuous relationships—and his son hummed under his father's gentle ministrations. The relationship had started after Narcissa had died of cancer—one of the few Muggle diseases that even magic was unable to cure—a year ago, for Lucius's desperation to hold onto anything that reminded him of his late wife. Anything, including fucking his son through the mattress every night, just to hear the familiar breathy gasps that were so reminiscent of his wife, just to see the familiar curves of his wife's genes in his son's arse and back and thighs and feet and the slope of his neck as he obediently took Lucius's cock in his mouth, the way his son wriggled impatiently on his fingers just as Narcissa had done while she had been alive.

And look at him now, feeling more affection for his son than he had ever felt for his wife.

Lucius fondly shook his head at the thought and looked down at the top of his son's head as the humming changed tone as he paged through the _Daily Prophet_, the hideous and low-class rag that his lover read twice—_Evening Prophet_ at night—every day, despite Lucius's distaste for it. It was so..._common_, and Malfoys were anything but common. "Draco?" he pleasantly queried, not stopping his gentle petting of the hair he had sternly ordered to have be gelled while they were alone in the house.

Draco tilted his head up and moved slightly so that his father could see the headline proclaiming, _**Boy Who Lived to Defeat He Who Must Not Be Named Still Missing!**_ Lucius gently rolled his eyes and shook his head. Harry Potter had been missing for nine years; he had walked out of Hogwarts after Voldemort slumped to the ground, dead, with a silent bundle in his arms, and he had never looked back. During the first year after the man's disappearance, there had been at least one article in the _Prophet_ in every edition on it, but over the past nine years, the occurrence had faded to a so-called startling proclamation once a year, inspiring a mass wave of panic—what if You-Know-Who arose again—that lasted for no longer than a day.

Draco sighed softly up at his father, butting the hand that had stopped petting him. Lucius smirked and resumed his doting on his son, scrutinizing his son's pale face. Draco leaned his forehead against his father's leg and crumpled the newspaper in his hand, the familiar photo—the same one used for every 'still missing' article—of Harry Potter grimacing as he was crushed.

"I think we should find him," Draco finally told Lucius, not meeting his father's gaze. Lucius leaned forward, lifting his son's chin to peer into the eyes so identical to his own, and then flinched gently at the amused voice that echoed from the doorway to his office.

"Find who?"

Lucius stood up to look into the grey-black eyes of his glamoured friend, smirking fiendishly at him. "Samael," he greeted, and helped his son to his feet, gently pushing the soft, fallen-forward hair out of his lover's eyes.

Draco smiled softly at the fixture his godfather made against the open doorway of his father's office: leaning casually against the intricately carved doorjamb, arms crossed loosely over his thin chest, amused gaze on the lovers in front of him. Severus Snape had been declared dead at the Battle of Hogwarts, but Lucius had transfigured a found stone into the dead body of their family friend when they had both realized that Severus was still alive, and had checked him into St. Mungo's under the guise of Samael Prince. After Lucius had made a few carefully placed threats and dropped a few bags of Galleons on certain desks, Samael Prince became a person, possibly the most highly skilled wizard in all of England, a Potions Master, an unacknowledged Dark Arts Master, a distant cousin and life-long friend of the Malfoy family...essentially, another Severus Snape, except under a carefully and intricate glamour and a newly relaxed demeanor.

Samael inclined his head to his two friends, black hair falling forward over his now-handsome face—one he could finally stand to look at in the mirror—and he quickly brushed it away, repeating his query.

Draco leaned against his father's strong side and opened the _Prophet_ to show Samael the article on Harry Potter's missing status. "I think we should find him," he repeated, and Samael smoothly stalked over, taking the newspaper from his godson's grasp, eyes roving hungrily over the smiling face. Draco and Lucius exchanged nearly concerned looks as one of Lucius's hands traced the line of his son's spine through the thin shirt he wore, and Draco twitched against his father's touch, stepping around his father to press his front against his father's, moaning under his breath as Lucius did not stop the caress.

Samael lifted his head from the article and, ignoring their actions, slowly nodded. "I agree." Lucius glanced at him and frowned softly. Draco pressed forward against him and Samael rolled his grey-black eyes, setting the crumpled newspaper on top of Lucius's desk and smoothing out Harry Potter's photo, receiving a winning smile in return. Samael looked up from the photo and met Lucius's gaze, casting the man a smirk and reeling him in with, "I found a loophole in the present laws for your..." He looked pointedly at the young man in Lucius's grasp and Lucius leered. "I will...tell you later."

Lucius nodded and watched Samael's retreating form for a moment before growling gently and, leaning down, captured his son's lips in his own, and at his son's wanton moan, quickly prepared the boy—he would always think of Draco as his little baby boy, a thought that he wasn't sure to be comfortable with—and thrust into his son's pliant body, those delicious ankles covered by Draco's quickly pulled-down trousers as they wrapped around the back of Lucius's neck.

Samael shook his head amusedly at the twin moans that emitted from Lucius's office and quickly put up a silencing shield before that _stupid_ and worthless longing overtook him again.

(O.o)

Year: **2009  
****Eleven Years Missing  
****One Hour Found**

Harry sighed softly as Draco gaped unattractively at them. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Marcus's neck before sighing again and beginning the story of how Marcus had found him.

(O.o)

Year: **2002  
****Four Years Missing**

Harry Potter scowled fiercely at the four-year-old boy that held desperately onto his hand, holding a melting vanilla ice-cream in one sticky hand. "You annoying twit," he muttered, but affectionately mussed the little boy's hair, causing the toddler to shriek with laughter; he knew from experience that his daddy was never mad really enough at him to really mean the insults, not even when he set the barn on fire or had been found talking excitedly to snakes in the garden. "Mordred only knows why I keep you," his daddy told him, and the toddler shrieked with laughter again.

They strode up the back walk to their small—on the outside; it was the size of a small manor on the inside, thanks to magic and wizardspace spells—cottage in the woods, Harry stepping protectively in front of his son as his gaze landed on a huge, hulking form lounging against one of his trucks. His wand was in the invisible holster on his right forearm; Harry's fingers inched downwards towards it as his son stood behind him, those damning eyes locked on his dripping ice cream.

The form lifted its head from staring stoically at the ground and the form detached itself from his truck and slowly strode towards them, hands lifted in innocence. The man stopped a good five yards from them, face still cast in shadow; Harry's head cocked slightly to the side as his eyes roved the form's posture—it looked irritatingly familiar, but he just couldn't place who the hell could have found him.

The voice rumbled through him, a spark to ignite a river of fire, and Harry only barely heard the slow tone, nodding eagerly as the man said something about giving him a wand. His hands hung limply at his sides, his own wand forgotten; the man pulled a wand from a holster in the same place as Harry's, and the man slowly stepped forward, pausing slightly when Harry's son peered around his daddy's legs, nearly dropping his ice cream in shock at the massive form of the man advancing towards them. The man was nearly a foot taller than Harry, who guessed his height to be 6'7" or so. He took the offered wand without hesitation, freezing as somehow familiar magic coursed through him, igniting his very bones with an unrecognizable ache.

The face finally moved out of shadow and Harry took his own step forward, nearly forgetting that he had a wand in his hand as he lifted it to push his hair out of the way. The form flinched and Harry looked between the upraised wand and the somehow familiar face; a shorter and thinner version of the man protesting his first win against Slytherin in Quidditch filled his mind: _He didn't catch it, he nearly swallowed it!_

"Flint?" he asked weakly, and the hulking form nodded softly, turning slightly away, those now-familiar steel grey eyes and the slicked-back coal black hair—still dull, he noticed—and that pale skin that all Slytherins held and those huge, crooked teeth that he couldn't ever forget... Interesting. "What do you want?" he asked, still lost in recollection, as tactless as a damn rock.

Flint didn't—_couldn't—_meet his gaze, turning away even more, not even caring about his wand. It didn't matter anymore, anyway. He grunted softly and spoke to the horses he could barely see, watching them over a green stock fence, "Been trying to find you for a few months. Followed you here. I'll just leave now..." He desperately ached for Harry to tell him that he couldn't leave, that Harry felt the same _stupid_ connection between them that he did, that he had been aching inside for someone and that someone coincidentally had a Marcus Flint-shaped hole to fill.

Harry took a soft step forward, left hand pressing against Flint's tensed arm. His son had temporarily been forgotten, but the wards on his land kept the boy from leaving his property or being seriously hurt—Harry believed that if his son was to learn, he had to learn the hard way, thanks to his _lovely_ relatives—and the red-eyed boy was happily entertaining himself by dripping melted ice cream on dried leaves.

Flint turned and looked down at the smaller green-eyed man, dropping a heavy hand on one of Harry's thin shoulders, absently massaging it; Harry smiled softly up at him and leaned his head against Marcus's thick arm, handing the Slytherin his wand back. Marcus slipped his wand back into the holster, frowning down at Harry, stepping forward so that he was nearly pressed up against the man who had once been known as the Boy Who Lived.

"How did you find me?" Harry asked softly.

Marcus huffed and dropped his hand from Harry's shoulder, crossing his arms over his broad chest, nearly hitting Harry in the face as he did so. Harry stepped back the smallest amount of space necessary so that he could peer up over Marcus's huge arms and see the man's face. "Followed a little boy with red eyes," he rumbled. "Little boy with red eyes just like the Dark Lord's."

Harry's face rippled in horror and he spun around, making sure that his little boy was still there; Marcus dropped his massive hands down on Harry's shoulders and forcibly turned the smaller man back around. "Nobody knows," he told Harry, who visibly relaxed against Marcus's grasp.

Harry met the steely grey gaze and, slowly, his lips curled up in a smile.

Their first kiss was awkward, hurried, messy, standing in front of the hayloft as Marcus had gently caught Harry around the waist after promising to catch the smaller man if he jumped from the upper level. Harry had been the one to initiate the kiss and it had been perfect, all he had thought a kiss could be—ashamedly, his only other kisses had been one with Cho and the other with Ginny, both kisses that he would experience a thousand times over if only Marcus Flint would kiss him one more time—and even more.

Marcus had held Harry so tightly after the kiss that the younger man had wondered if he was going to break, and then Marcus had gently set Harry on the ground and walked listlessly away. He had then determinedly evaded Harry as well as one could when they were sharing the responsibility of a four-year-old and up to ten horses and living in the same house; Harry, as expected, had been so devastated that it had been nearly impossible to function.

Harry knew that his kissing abilities probably weren't as good as someone nearing twenty-five should be, but he had thought they had been good enough for their first kiss. He hadn't realized how much he had begun to rely on the older and stronger man, desperately missing all of their casual touches—the touches that he hadn't even realized were happening until they stopped—and the soft embrace he could turn into whenever he felt like it. It couldn't be that Harry was ugly, was it? He didn't think he was ugly. He probably was.

Harry examined his naked body in a silently Conjured mirror that reached from the ceiling to his feet. He was small—5'6"—nearly an entire foot under Marcus—6'4"—who Harry had demanded to measure one late night while they had been relaxing in front of a softly burning fire in the sitting room before Harry had gone and fucked everything up by kissing the other man. Hell, he figured, as his hands traveled over the faded white scars on his stomach, courtesy of the Dursley's, Marcus probably wasn't even gay. That would just be his luck, too, falling for a man who couldn't even love him back.

That had been the reason he had kissed Marcus, too, because as he had been gazing softly into those smirking grey eyes the moment before he had jumped, he had been awaken desperately by the realization that he was in love with the other man.

Stupid, he knew, but it had been sudden and overpowering and mindless; he had felt those familiar massive hands cradling his hips and Harry hadn't been able to stop his stupid freak urge to kiss the other man. And he could have sworn that Marcus had kissed back, but that was probably his stupid freak mind trying to placate him through the realization that lady luck wasn't on his side in love, as she hadn't been in anything else.

It was probably that Harry was ugly and a guy, Harry figured, running the pads of his quivering fingers over the angular planes of his face. While Marcus wasn't a conventional handsome, to Harry, he was as handsome as the night sky he had found on a mound of dead leaves a few days after Marcus had first come to stay with them, made out of his son's slowly melting ice cream. Speaking of his son, Harry had to call the nanny he hadn't employed since Tom was two, because seeing the joy in his son's red eyes reminded him too much of Marcus. That was stupid, too, seeing Marcus in everything around him, especially now that he knew that he couldn't dare touch Marcus in case of being thrown away like the freak he was.

Marcus wasn't pretty, Harry knew. His eyes were too small and beady and his hair was eternally dull and limp and his ears stuck out slightly from his head and his teeth nearly poked through his lips whenever his mouth was closed and sometimes he gave off a reek scent...and all of those things, Harry liked. Loved, really. He loved how when Marcus held him, his grasp usually became uncomfortably tight, or the sharp musk that assaulted his nose whenever he and Marcus were in touching distance—and before Harry had fucked everything up, they had actually _touched_, but now Marcus cleanly stayed out of Harry's reach, probably because he was so disgusted and infuriated that if Harry touched him, he'd just up and leave, go tell the Wizarding world that Harry Potter was living out in the woods like the stupid freak fag he was with his horrible-history son that thankfully was growing up to be a happy, free child—or the way Harry's name rolled off the man's lips as if it were made of flaxen gold...

That was another thing. Harry turned away from his freak reflection and flicked his hand over his scarred, thin shoulder at the mirror, and with the small whoosh of magic, the mirror disappeared. He should have broken it and stepped all over the glass.

Marcus had stopped calling Harry by his first name, which was probably the worst deal out of the lot. Being called 'Potter' by those deep, rumbling tones...it was torture. He wanted to shake the man—not that he was strong enough to even have an effect, or now being allowed within touching distance because of his freakish stupidity—and demand for an answer, demand to know why, even if Marcus hated him for being such a stupid fag freak, that he couldn't be called by his first name, even just _once_ before the time that he was so sure was coming, when Marcus decided that he couldn't handle being around such a freak and left him. Probably to go tell the Wizarding world where he was, in Slytherin retribution for being a freak.

Harry's fists clenched tightly and he blinked angrily, low-slung drawstring trousers appearing around his hips as he stalked out of his room and down the hall to the room he had given Marcus when he had arrived. The door was open and the room was empty; Marcus was probably downstairs, staring into the fire and drinking all of Harry's good whisky. Harry growled under his breath as he slipped down the stairs and as he turned to the sitting room, breath catching in his throat at the slope of Marcus's broad shoulders as he sat on the couch, head in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees.

He stepped into the room, forcing his relaxing fists to clench again, and he ground out Marcus's name. Marcus's head shot up and he whipped around, jaw unhinging and eyes widening dramatically at the scars marring Harry's bare torso. Usually, he would have berated himself for not wearing a shirt around Marcus—the _'where the hell did you get those scars!?'_ conversations were never comfortable—but, right now, he was too damned miserable and pissed to care.

"Harry," Marcus surged to his feet and drew closer to Harry, his own great fists clenching at his hips, "Who the hell—"

"No," Harry hissed, taking his own step forward and feeling his magic whip around him. It felt painfully good to see Marcus's steel eyes widen and for the huge man to take a step back; is this how Marcus felt all the time? Imposing and impossible? No wonder the man was so big. "You have _no_ right to call me Harry."

Marcus turned away, nodding quickly. "I know," he told Harry, who frowned slightly. What the hell? Marcus hated him, wasn't touching him because he was a freak, because he was stupid... "I didn't mean to kiss back," the Slytherin whispered, whipping back around on Harry and wrapping Harry's small, scarred shoulders in his massive hands. "What the hell did you think you were getting at, Potter?" he spat, those beloved grey eyes furious and Harry cowered away. Here came the insults for being a fag, for being a freak; Harry tensed himself for them, telling himself that he would just nod in response and then woodenly walk away, never let Marcus see his reaction to those horrible words.

He had never been scared of Marcus before.

Marcus gaped down at him and nearly jumped back, holding his hands up in front of his chest. Harry's heart clenched; was it really that painful to touch someone so disgusting? He...if he could Obliviate that idiotic memory from Marcus's mind, just to have them return to what they were before his unbelievably stupid _need_ to kiss the elder Slytherin, and if Harry had the actual ability to raise his wand against the man he loved, he would do it in a second. "Is it really that horrible to touch me?" Harry growled, feeling his uncut nails dig into his palms and well up blood. "I'm not going to jump you again if you touch me," he jeered, "Just because I'm a stupid freak fag doesn't mean I'm going to—"

Their second kiss was even better, Marcus pouring all of his regret—how could he let Harry think that he hadn't wanted to touch him, to take him, to kiss every inch of his precious flesh every second? How could he let Harry think that he had been disgusted by the most beautiful kiss of his life? How could he let Harry think that he hadn't spent every second of the past two weeks with his fists clenched, trying to hold in the need to pet down Harry's shoulders or plaster his hand to Harry's hip as they walked to the barn together or pull the other man up against him as they watched the water trough fill with fresh spring water newly siphoned from a hose?—into Harry's mouth, desperately trying not to show that this was the only the third kiss of his life; the first one had been with girl who had been searching for Montague way back in his first seventh year at Hogwarts. How the hell could anyone mistake him for Montague, anyway?

Marcus grunted into Harry's mouth and the smaller man moaned softly, allowing Marcus to plunder his mouth, running his tongue over the roof of Harry's mouth. No, Marcus corrected, as Harry trembled violently against him, that accidental kiss with the Slytherin bint hadn't been a kiss, it had been a mistake. _This_ was a kiss, _this_ was Harry. _This_ was love.

Harry's arms wrapped around his waist as Marcus gently pulled away, tightening his grasp around the smaller man's shoulders. Marcus felt Harry tense in his grip but didn't relax it; instead, he dug his fingers into the Gryffindor's ribs and pulled himself up straight, craning his head forward to breathe into Harry's swollen mouth, "Mine."

Harry nearly started crying as he nodded in agreement. "Yours," he informed Marcus, who growled loudly and threw Harry onto the couch, falling on top of him.

Their third kiss was the first time Harry ever came without touching himself; Marcus watched Harry's face as the younger man fell prey to his orgasm, taking Harry's pleasure for his own and imprinting that single image in the wall of his mind—for every time he blinked, he saw Harry's face twisted in spasm of pleasure so wide that Harry couldn't shut his eyes.

They were engaged a month later—the fourth month that Marcus had been living with him—by a mutual look as they passed a Muggle ring shop. Harry had nodded at the same time Marcus had, and then they had dragged one another to the store and slyly bought one another matching plain gold rings.

Two months after that, Marcus—so nervous he had ripped holes in his palms—officially asked Harry to marry him; Harry had cried in his joy and Tom, who had been slamming his rattler against a door, had begun laughing as his papa swung his daddy around the sitting room, Marcus slamming into the liquor cabinet and Harry, giggling, had repaired it with a wave of his hand. After a long, painfully emotional talk in which Marcus found out everything Harry was capable of—wandless magic, for one—Marcus took Harry to a covert Wizarding marriage center and they were married.

Harry had wanted to be bonded, _ached_ to be bonded, but the stern yet understanding Governor had regretfully informed that they needed another partner to complete a bond. Marcus had still demanded they be married but not have the records released to the Ministry of Magic until the third and final line on their marriage and bond contract was signed and both were finally completed.

Marcus had torn Harry a dozen new claiming marks and fucked him hard enough to be sore and lame for a week after being told that there was someone he had to share _his_ Harry with, and after two months of placating, Harry had finally convinced the imposing man that if there was someone else that they had to share their bed with, it would only be on Marcus's terms and Harry would always, _always_, belong to Marcus.

Marcus had nodded in agreement and then, for only the second time in their entire relationship, had somberly told Harry that he loved him.

That had been one of the best days of Harry's life.

(O.o)

Year: **2009  
****Eleven Years Missing  
****Two Hours Found**

Marcus smirked neatly at the Slytherins watching his pretty little Harry as he blushingly left out the time that Marcus had fucked his beau—literally—through a floor. Harry had thought it so funny that he hadn't allowed Marcus to seal up the hole, which was in the middle of their bedroom and covered by a mild concealment charm and led to a room that could even hold Marcus's rage. Snape—masked as a Samael Prince, the annoying bastard—watched his Harry curiously as the boy skirted around the topic of their marriage, the grey-black eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Harry's head whipped around and his entire body softened at the thin boy with ruffled black hair and red eyes standing in the doorway, those trademark red eyes flickering curiously between the three men. His fathers' open affection for each other was no longer—if it indeed ever had been; Tom couldn't remember a time that his father wasn't holding his dad as close as humanly possible, growling at anyone who even dared look at him—shocking to him, but the pretty blond boy staring at his dad was...startling.

"Thomas," Harry greeted him, telling him with his tone—and his father's grey eyes warning him darkly—that these were formal guests, and Tom nodded slowly, glancing down at his bare feet and the dusty Muggle jeans he wore, the huge dirty white t-shirt—it was one of his father's, as all of his clothes were being washed—dangling down to his knees and drowning him in faux purity.

"That's my shirt," his father grumbled, steely eyes narrowing slightly. Tom gulped and skirted around the far side of the couch, closer to the handsome man with the black hair and then keeping that man between him and his fathers. "Only Harry is allowed to wear my clothes, Thomas," his father informed him, as if he hadn't been told that a dozen times, and Tom nodded quickly, shucking off the shirt and throwing it at his father. His dad held up his hand and the shirt floated over to him, his father glaring at him. He should have just gone shirtless. Tom made sure to remember that bit of logic for his future.

His dad dropped his father's massive shirt and turned in his father's lap to tell him to do something. Only his dad could get away with even the thought of telling his father what to do, Tom reflected. He heard something about feeding the horses and groaned under his breath; feeding with his father was a chore best left to his dad.

His father nodded stonily, his grey eyes still locked on Tom's face, and he gently set his dad aside as he pushed gracefully to his feet. His father stalked towards him and shoved Tom out of the sitting room, grumbling angrily under his breath as they stepped outside, his father shoving Tom up against the house with a small grunt. "Do not wear my clothes again, Thomas," his father warned him, and Tom nodded hastily. It would be stupid to defy his father; and, by default, his dad, who had his father to back him up.

His father grunted again and stepped back, allowing Tom to drop to the ground—it always seemed so far away when his father told him what and wasn't up—and then scramble through the dust after his father. "Looked like a girl, anyway," his father dryly informed him, and Tom chuckled dryly. He had the best fathers in the world.

Harry curled up in the warm spot Marcus had left behind, tucking his arms around his shins, smiling slightly to himself. "Well, that was my son," he informed the silent Slytherins all staring at him, "Thomas Riddle Flint."

Harry smiled serenely at their reactions.

(O.o)

**End Chapter One**  
_Morsus:_ Latin for pain.


	2. Rose Morsus, Ch2

**Disclaimer: I own naught.**

**Warnings:** Slash, of the extreme and incestuous variety. Series compatible; ignores epilogue and any actions of Harry after the death of Voldemort.  
**Pairings:** Established Marcus Flint/Harry Potter, eventual Marcus Flint/Harry Potter/Severus Snape; Established Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy, eventual Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy/Tom Riddle Flint.  
**A Note:** Snape will be referred to the name of the visage he is currently in; Samael Prince=Severus Snape, and vice versa.  
Review responses are at the end of the chapter.

* * *

_**Morsus  
**_**By: Bucket/Replacement for the Stars/filthyfreedom**

Chapter Two:  
Rose  
Year: **2008  
****Ten Years Missing**

_Der Jüngling steigt den Berg mit Qual  
Die Aussicht ist ihm sehr egal  
Hat das Röslein nur im Sinn  
Bringt es seiner Liebsten hin  
_'Rosenrot', Rammstein

(O.o)

Dobby, in the guise of the butler Donald, obediently opened the front door of his Master's home, politely inquiring on the identity of the tall, thin woman with bright red lips and huge brown hair. She smiled widely at him and lifted her briefcase, flashing Dobby a set of lengthy faux red nails that curled around at the end and his wide green eyes kept flashing back to. "My name is Monica Styf," she informed him, "I am here from England Social Services."

Marcus turned the corner and his steel eyes narrowed dangerously. Marcus shoved Dobby aside, telling him to go help Harry with the kid, and overwhelmed the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. "What do you want?"

Monica smiled winningly at him; Marcus bared his teeth in response. Filthy female, thinking she could win _him_ over with pretty looks and exposed cleavage? She had another thing coming if she thought that. She didn't even have good legs. Disgusting Muggle. "I am here on request of"—she pulled out a paper from her briefcase and held it up so she could read it—"Mayor of Townshend, Miles Templeton, who has been informed there is a child living in this house who is not registered in any school, at the hospital, or even fact that such child exists."

Marcus grunted. "We don't have a kid, lady. You can leave now."

Her brows met and her clear forehead wrinkled as she scrunched up her nose. "Sir, you just told your...butler? to go assist another man with a child."

Marcus snorted and shook his head, soft hair moving softly about his face. "_Kid_, lady, not child. Got a kid goat. That musta been what your _Mayor_ thought was a child."

Monica attempted a few more attempts to gain entrance into the house but she couldn't outmaneuver a Slytherin, and as she stalked down the front walk, Marcus pleasingly slammed the door behind her, listening to the _boom_ rattle throughout their house. Stupid Muggles, thinking they could meddle in the affairs of wizards; Marcus's train of thought ran into a wall as he felt Harry wrap soft arms around his waist and rest his chin on Marcus's chest. He looked down at the younger man and gently ran his hand over Harry's beautiful face.

"What did she want, love?"

Marcus grunted. "Nothing to worry your pretty little head about," he informed Harry, picked the other man up, and shoved him against the wall, lips to lips and ragged hands to hot skin. Dobby frowned slightly as he herded Tom past his fathers, tennis ball-size eyes blinking slowly as he thought, _That woman wasn't who she said she was. Something wrong is happening._ He vowed to tell his Masters just what he thought could be happening; it was just wise to wait until they were done with one another, however. Never a good idea to interfere when Master Marcus was claiming Master Harry, Dobby recollected ruefully, and with a snap of long fingers, he placed a small lunch on the table for Master Tommy and himself.

With another snap of his fingers, he put a silencing charm around his two Masters. No need for their noises to interrupt his and Master Tommy's meal, Dobby reflected, and happily thanked Master Tommy for handing him a filled plate.

(O.o)

Outside, Monica Styf hissed as her brother swooped down from the trees to hand over her broomstick. She thanked him and as they pushed off, under heavy Concealment Charms, she leaned over and told him of what had happened, "Potter's there with _Flint_, the troll bastard." His eyes widened dramatically and she quickly shook her head. "I don't care what Malfoy told us to find, I'm _not_ telling him that."

Her brother chuckled darkly but nodded. "Let the lazy bastard find that one out for hisself."

She smirked as they went ever higher, swirling up near the clouds and, for a long moment, she felt as if she could dance across the surface of the moon, ride a centaur, converse with the creatures of the sea... "All we'll tell him is that there's a chance he has a kid."

He nodded slowly. "Sounds good to me."

(O.o)

Year: **2007  
****Nine Years Missing**

Lucius smoothed back his son's hair as the boy trembled wetly against him, one strong arm wrapped around his son's small waist and the other searching for his wand amongst the mess he had somehow made of his desk. Draco hummed against him, his lips connected with strands of saliva and semen, and Lucius pushed his son back down onto the desk, back flat against the wood.

Draco was nearly entirely undressed, pants hanging off one delicious ankle and his shirt capturing his wrists, while Lucius had simply pulled himself out of his trousers, one of his son's favorite ways. His searching hand finally found his wand as he pulled out of his son, who gave a small sob of loss, and Lucius sent a cleaning spell at his son before gently hand-dressing him.

Draco curled against his father's wide chest, mind blank as one hand absently ran up and down his father's wide ribs. He glanced down and tucked his father back in his pants before looking up and meeting his father's low grey gaze. He was well aware why they had begun doing this—he was a replacement for his mother, plain and simple—and while his father had long told him that he now was more than that, it still didn't _feel_ like it. Shrugging mentally, he pushed that thought away and mindlessly followed his father out of his office and to the sitting room Samael was waiting in, staring pensively into a softly burning fire.

He settled himself at his father's feet, absently leaning the side of his head against his father's knee as one of those strong hands gently pet his hair, and watched Samael as he pondered...whatever Samael Prince pondered; Draco imagined it was a thousand new potions, or a spell to make the stars that sparkled in his father's eyes reality, or a curse to create. Draco smiled softly and tilted his head back to direct the look at his father, who gently caressed his temples with one long finger. Lucius Malfoy nodded sternly and then lifted his gaze, clearing his throat softly to garner their friend's attention.

Samael turned his head and met Lucius's grey gaze, not at all startled by their appearance. Formal pureblood propriety dictated that the purer of the conversationalists begin; and so Samael waited. Finally, Lucius deemed his patience worthy of his attention and queried politely, "You have found a loophole?"

Samael nodded lowly and leaned back comfortably in the armchair, crossing his right leg over his left and clasping his hands on top of his flat stomach, eyes staring into empty space. "By Ministry of Magic Soul Bond Law, instated in 1606 by Salazar Slytherin, any relationship is not allowed to be...tabooed, for lack of a better word, if a Governor accepts them for a bond." He dismissively waved a hand. "That is the essence of the Law, however; all you need to know. I will have it sent over to your office later."

Lucius smirked thankfully at his friend, twisting a few strands of the soft blond hair between his fingers as he thought. "And if the Governor does not approve?" he asked mildly, not meeting his friend's gaze.

Samael's grey-black eyes snapped to Lucius's face, the thin mouth below them frowning lightly. "The Law does not specify. However, I see no reason why a Governor would deny your...relationship." He looked pointedly at Draco, who smiled lazily at him, and then back up at Lucius, who was nodding slowly.

There were a few minutes of comfortable silence before Lucius frowned softly and tossed the question out into the room, "Do you believe we should find Harry Potter, Samael?" His grey eyes were kept emotionless as they watched his friend's face react, however subtly.

Samael nodded. "Yes. Harry Potter has been missing for far too long."

(O.o)

Two months later, Lucius's fists clenched violently as a Governor slowly shook his head, respectfully telling he and his son that their bond could not be completed, as they needed another partner for the magic to work properly. As the Governor watched them, he was sadly reminded of another couple, one who had come to him five years prior for a marriage and a bonding; he breathed another sigh of regret for the heartache the men had suffered at being told just what he had told this couple. Harry Potter and Marcus Flint... The Governor shook his head softly, remembering the furious widening of steel grey eyes and the possessive arms wrapped around a thin chest as he had informed them of their missing partner, of the liquidation of emerald eyes as he tilted his head back to peer desperately into the eyes of his lover. If he had ever regretted that bonding magic needed all partners to be complete, it had been in the moment when Harry Potter had caught his arm in his small hand and whispered if he would still marry them and Marcus Flint's furious demands for a marriage.

Of course he had married them; no human could resist that pleading gaze or those furious grey eyes.

The Governor shook his head of the past and looked sternly at the two blond men standing in front of them, their witness standing in a pool of shadows and watching nervously. He did not see the obvious relation between them or the exact same hue of their eyes; instead, all he saw were the soft touches and understanding looks passed between them. "You can still be married, if you like," he offered understandingly, but the elder and taller of the two shook his head determinedly, clenching a hand down on his younger partner's shoulder.

"Not now, then," Lucius Malfoy informed the Governor. "When we have our final partner, we will return to be bonded." Lord Malfoy nodded to him and stalked out of the small room, his son and family friend shadowing behind him.

The Governor sighed sadly and retook the seat at his desk, staring at the piles of marriage and bonding requests that he had to complete and either accept or deny. There were days when he truly hated his job.

(O.o)

Year: **2009  
****Eleven Years Missing  
****Two-and-half Hours Found**

Marcus landed squarely on his feet as he jumped from the upper level of the hayloft, running his hand through his hair, dislodging hay as he turned to look at his son's face. Tom was going to Hogwarts in less than a month, and Marcus wondered if the boy was looking forward to it; he had certainly heard enough tales from both of his fathers about their exploits there. All Marcus hoped was that Tom would be placed in Slytherin. Having a Gryffindor son...Marcus shook his head at the thought and lifted up a bale of hay in each arm, grunting to tell his son to follow him.

Tom walked leisurely behind his father, waving his hand to open the hay gates for the eight horses that poked their heads through, eagerly waiting for their afternoon meal. His dad had told him that there were wards up around their property so that the Ministry of Magic could not detect underage magic. His dad had then grinned at his father and then proceeded to tell them of the time during the summer before his fifth year at Hogwarts, when he had protected his cousin—his father's eyes had narrowed dangerously and his arms had tightened even more than their usual grasp around his dad, who had barely even noticed that he couldn't really breathe—from Dementors, and then Tom had begged to know what those were; in retrospect, it was probably better to stay in the dark about creatures that sucked out souls.

Marcus threw the corresponding number of flakes in each stall, Tom flicking his hand to close and latch each hay gate behind him. When his dad fed the horses, he just flipped a hand lazily at the bales of hay and each one separated into the correct number of flakes and floated into the correct stall. His dad had grown slightly lazy the older he got, Tom reflected ruefully with a small grin, but his dad would never pass up the chance to fly around with his father.

While Tom wasn't _expected_, per se, to join one of the Quidditch teams, both of his parents had dropped hints that it would be nice to have another Quidditch player in the house. While Tom knew that his dad had once held vague desires for his son to join Gryffindor, Tom was well aware that his entire existence had been groomed for a life in Slytherin: lengthy—for his father—lessons on proper pureblood decorum and behavior, proper Slytherin manners and the particular wards he should put around his bed and personal things, how he should act to the elder Slytherins and when he was older, how he should act around the younger Slytherins, and what his attitude was supposed to be towards his Head of House, or how he was supposed to react when a Gryffindor mocked him for who his parents were or what types of questions he was, as a proper Slytherin, allowed to answer in class and the proper Slytherin way to react to half-bloods and Muggle-borns, although Tom had been raised to believe that they were all equal. The list went on, and Tom had eagerly listened, but the entire culmination of his father's lecture had been that he should just act like the typical Slytherin—cold and cruel and calculating—and respect his damn elders. And pay attention in History of Magic and not answer any bloody questions in Charms, for Mordred's sake.

His father tossed the last few flakes into the final stall and then opened the door, gently slipping inside to glance over their lame Belgian mare, aptly named Daisy for her soft demeanor and gentle brown eyes. Harry had his suspicions that she was foundering but the only animal medical scans that they had been able to find—neither of Tom's parents were very good at researching, Tom had found out—hadn't shown anything. Then again, she was a horse; it would be more than a damn miracle if they never had a lame horse. Marcus murmured softly to her—the only times that Tom ever saw his father gentle were around the horses or when he was holding his dad—and softly ran his hands down her sweat-wrapped leg. After a few moments of prodding, Marcus straightened with a nod; he gently pet down Daisy's soft neck and then left the stall, Tom waving a hand to softly shut the door, and watched his father stalk down the wide center hallway, probably back to his dad.

Tom sighed softly—one day, he promised himself, he would find love like that of his parents'—and turned to go look at the three horses grazing happily out in the small pasture, the three horses that they didn't have to feed. He heard his father's gruff words in his mind, _Nothin' kills a horse faster 'n grass_, and his dad's giggling response, and fondly shook his head. Only his parents...

(O.o)

Marcus grumbled under his breath as he strode past the entrance of the sitting room, glancing to see that his lover was still ensconced in the chair—he was—and absently stripping off his shirt and throwing it in the general direction of the stairs; Dobby would find it soon enough and do whatever with dirty clothes that house elves did. He scowled at the empty kitchen, lowly calling Dobby to bring him just bloody _something_ to eat. He nodded to do something with his hands. Their plow horse, Daisy, had been lame for a few months, and while they could do the work with magic, Marcus liked seeing the soft look in Harry's eyes when he saw the Belgian complacently working the fields. He'd do damn near anything to make Harry happy.

Dobby reappeared with a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich on a plain white plate; Marcus grunted, pleased, when the house elf placed the food in front of him. While the meal was what he would have usually fed Tom, in the middle of damn winter, after the boy had been playing outside, it was one of Marcus's favorite meals and he tucked in, eyes not following his hands as he ate and loudly slurped the soup, hunched over the bowl like the troll he had thought himself to be for years; Harry could make something think they were a damn god if he put his mind to it. After a few minutes of eating, Marcus looked over to look at Dobby's nervous fidgeting.

"What?" he ground out, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich.

Dobby slipped onto the bench across from Marcus and the Slytherin had to clench his jaw to keep from ordering the house elf to get off; Harry liked to think that Dobby was one of the family and wouldn't let anyone treat him disrespectfully. Marcus made sure to follow that rule; the one time he hadn't, Harry had ignored him for two hours before he had caved and apologized to the damn house elf. Marcus hadn't realized just how much he depended on the younger man until he didn't have him anymore. Dobby squirmed in his seat and then squeaked, "What does the Misters Malfoys wants with Masters?"

Marcus grunted and ripped off another chunk of the sandwich. He swallowed thickly before responding lowly, "Dunno. Figure they want Harry to go back."

Dobby _eep_ed and looked nervously around, wringing his hands. Marcus one-handedly lifted up the bowl of tomato soup and gulped some down. He dropped the bowl and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as Dobby replied, that damn voice still irritatingly high, "But Master Marcus won't let thems takes his Master Harry aways, will he?"

"'Course not," Marcus told him with an almost amused grunt. _Let_ someone take Harry from him? Not even over his dead body. He'd fight past his dying breath to keep Harry with him. He was a Slytherin; Slytherins were bloody possessive of what was theirs. Damnit, now he was all edgy; Marcus shoved the last bit of sandwich in his mouth and stood up, ignoring Dobby's teary thanks, simply pushing the house elf away and rubbing at his face with his hands as he swallowed the sandwich, making his lumbering way to Harry.

The man Harry had told him who was really Snape was on his hands and knees, digging under the couch for his wand; Marcus glanced down and saw it at his feet. He squatted down and picked up the wand; straightening up again and twirling the wand between his fingers, he made his way to Harry and picked the smaller man up by the back of his neck. Marcus dropped himself into his seat and placed Harry in his lap, wrapping one arm around his husband and still twirling the wand between the fingers of his other hand. The two Malfoys snickered softly as Marcus watched the thin body of Samael Prince squirm; he frowned softly as something unrecognizable flared through him and he shifted Harry closer to push the feeling away.

Harry leaned his head against Marcus's shoulder, holding the man's left hand in both of his, idly examining his palm as he waited for something to happen. Mordred, he loved these hands. Strong enough to hold him together after shattering him so delicately...Harry shivered internally at the thought. He, as well, felt that unrecognizable feeling swarm him as he watched Samael wriggle slightly, but pushed it away to focus on Marcus, who was more important to him than anyone, even his son, which was slightly unsurprising, as Tom technically wasn't his or Marcus's by blood. By love and all that really mattered, yes, but not by blood.

Samael finally sat up with a huff of irritation, eyes immediately landing on the wand dangling in Marcus's wide hand. Those grey-black eyes narrowed as Samael pushed to his feet, sidling closer. Harry, who was by then staring thoughtlessly at the ceiling, didn't even look over to Samael as he told him, "I wouldn't try to take it. He'll give it back to you when he's ready."

Marcus sneered and dropped his head to pull in the scent of Harry's hair, pressing a soft kiss to that mat of soft hair, uncaring if anyone saw him—Harry was _his_, it was good for others to be reminded of that—and Samael paused, glancing between Harry and Marcus; slowly, the man nodded and retook his seat directly across from them. Marcus handed Harry the wand and it disappeared into the locked and warded chest at the foot of their bed. He would give it back to Samael when Marcus was ready.

Tom sauntered into the room, Harry's eyes finally moving from the ceiling as he frowned at the bare chest of his son. "Go put on a shirt, Thomas." Tom paused, glancing at the bare chest of his father—who only went shirted when they had company his father considered polite over or when they were feeding or out in public—and then nodding, retreating from the room.

Lucius slowly raised an eyebrow as Marcus clamped his right hand to the thin stomach of his husband, glaring mildly at the empty tumbler of whisky on the coffee table in front of them. "You never did tell the tale of how...Thomas Riddle came to be your son," he reminded Harry, who frowned slightly and shifted his weight softly on his husband's lap, moving into a more comfortable position. He threaded his fingers through Marcus's as he slowly responded, trying not to say anything that Marcus didn't already know.

"As you well know, I defeated Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts." He ignored the soft flinch that the two Malfoys and Samael gave at the dead man's name and curled into the slightly rougher embrace of his husband. "When he was dead, I was drawn into the dying gasps of his mind," he informed the three Slytherins, not looking at any of them, "and I saw a baby with red eyes crying under a chair. I...couldn't just..._leave_ it there, so I pulled off my dueling robes and wrapped the baby in them. The moment I had the babe in my arms, Voldemort"—the three Slytherins flinched again—"died. I left Hogwarts that day for the final time, my son in my arms." Harry smiled at the boy who then entered the room, throwing himself on the empty cushion on the couch and looking curiously at the occupants of the room. "I named him after the man that had died for him. Thomas Marvolo Riddle, and after our marriage"—Harry smiled softly up at his husband, whose lips curled back from his large teeth in response—"his name was legally changed to Thomas Riddle Flint. My beautiful son," Harry whispered, eyes falling on Tom's handsome and young face with a soft and caring smile.

Marcus grunted, all attention in the room going immediately to him; he glared softly at the three imposters in his house. He'd have the still-don't-understand-why-you-took-my-last-name conversation with Harry later; no need to have private family talks in front of men he didn't even trust. He leaned his head down and pressed his nose to the crease where Harry's neck sloped to meet his shoulder, and bared his teeth against Harry's soft skin, eyes fluttering shut.

Tom kept glancing at the two attractive men sitting on the couch with him, mysteriously drawn to their cold grey eyes and white-blond hair, the pale, pointed features and the aristocratic and superior air they exuded. The younger of the two, blond hair slicked back—Tom's father had told him that once he began at Hogwarts, he would have to start slicking his hair back as well—and barely glamoured red claiming marks dancing over his neck, looked back at Tom and raised a smooth blond eyebrow, those lips twisting in amusement. The elder of the two Malfoys—Tom had heard a hundred stories about them, from both fathers—slowly turned his head and lifted an identical eyebrow at him, his snake-headed cane lying crossways on his knees. Tom swallowed when he saw it and dragged his eyes back to look at his parents; his dad's amused emerald eyes flickered between him and their blond guests and Tom couldn't see his father's face, as it was buried in his dad's neck.

"How's Daisy, Thomas?" his dad queried, his green eyes still dangerously amused; Tom remembered from stories of the Weasley twins that they had a huge impact on Harry's years at Hogwarts, and wondered just how much that made his father regret marrying a Gryffindor. Probably not at all; his parents were so wrapped up in one another that nothing could tear them apart.

Tom shrugged elegantly. "Leg's still sweat-wrapped, but it didn't look as swollen. Oh, and Patrick threw a shoe, I'll call Dustin later."

His dad's brow furrowed. "Which shoe? This is the third time in as many months; I'll tell Greg that he needs overreach boots." Marcus's teeth separated slightly and bit down on Harry's skin; Harry's eyes burned and he unobtrusively leaned his head to the side to allow his husband more access.

Tom nodded slightly, not even registering what his father was doing; he had walked in on so many near-sex situations and had been deterred from even more by Dobby that all they did was to make him wonder if all parents were as in love and as determined to show it as his parents were. He doubted it; when he was allowed to go to town, he didn't see the other parents holding hands and teasing one another—instead, he saw furious faces and harsh arguments, insults and mocking phrases only said to hurt. His father had always told him that his dad was special, and after seeing so many sullen children watching as their parents nearly physically fought in the middle of the grocery store, Tom was ready to believe it; what he didn't tell his father, though, was that he thought his dad was so special because of his father. They completed one another.

Tom had only seen his parents fight once: his father hadn't been polite to Dobby and his dad had just ignored the massive man until he apologized. Tom barely remembered it, except for the lost look on his father's face when his dad didn't even look at him as his father asked him when he was leaving next for a transportation job, and the near tears in his father's eyes as he wandered, lost, around the house, touching things but not recognizing them. Tom had glanced up from one of his books and sternly told his father—any other time telling his father what to do would have resulted in a furious look and punishment, but as his father was so _lost_, he didn't even register that his son was telling him to do something—to go apologize. His father had nodded to him and wandered out of the sitting room; ten minutes later, he heard his dad's soft squeak as his father pressed him up against a wall and ravished him senseless. Dobby had appeared in the sitting room and put up a silencing charm around the room; later, by the look of his dad, Tom had been grateful.

He looked up and met his dad's gaze, frowning slightly. "Off fore," and his dad nodded slowly, eyes flickering over to the black haired man. Tom glanced around worriedly as something buzzed loudly and Dobby appeared with his dad's cell phone in his hand.

"Call for Master Harry!" the house elf announced, and Harry took the cell phone, flipped it open and pressed it to his ear, wriggling out of Marcus's arms and stepping out of the sitting room, Dobby on his heels.

"Flint Transport," he told the phone, as if it was wondering who he was, and their three guests threw each other mildly confused looks. Marcus leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Harry had always been the one to handle any contact with their customers, while Marcus usually transported whatever their job was for that time, sometimes taking Tom with him and sometimes not.

A few minutes later, Harry stepped back into the sitting room and looked at Marcus. "Dobby," and the house elf danced around him. "Take our guests to their guest rooms. Thomas, go to bed at nine. Marcus..."

The tall Slytherin stood up and followed Harry upstairs, a door slamming shut behind them. Lucius and Samael glanced at one another as they followed the bouncing house elf up the stairs, past the room magically sealed shut and the door painted black, Draco following closely behind his father as he looked around the house and then the room that he and his father were placed in. It was no Malfoy Manor, but it would have to do.

(O.o)

Year: **2003  
****Five Years Missing**

Harry curled up on Marcus's lap as Dobby placed the birthday cake in front of their son. Outside, the wind screamed as the snow whipped against the windows; they had tightly locked up the house and the barn right before the blizzard began. Tom grinned excitedly up at his fathers and then squeezed his red eyes shut to make a wish. Marcus grumbled slightly—he still didn't understand this Muggle tradition—and leaned his head forward, biting the side of his husband's neck lightly. It was one of his favorite manners of touching his beautiful little husband.

Tom blew out the five candles and Dobby danced around them; he looked up at his parents, seeing his dad's soft smile and his father's warm grey eyes. Dobby quickly cut the cake and handed out the slices—Harry happily took one, but Marcus shook his head; he only liked sugar when he licked it from Harry's quivering skin. Tom crowed with delight and quickly ate the slice of cake, Marcus's eyebrows going up when he saw how nearly half the cake was smeared on his son's face, but shrugged at the thought and went back to molesting his husband.

Harry froze, cocking his head to the side and nearly hitting Marcus in the face with his skull. Marcus grunted in anger but lifted his head, running a large hand up Harry's ribs and made a soft, curious sound when Harry tried to escape his grasp. Harry disengaged himself from Marcus's arms and turned around, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. "Something's wrong," he told his husband, and Marcus pushed obediently to his feet, following his beau to the back door of their cottage.

"What's it?" Marcus grunted, tugging on a shirt and then holding a thin jacket out to his Harry. When Harry didn't take it, only moving desperately to the door, Marcus rolled his eyes and dropped the jacket on the floor, following his husband through the door and out into the whipping wind.

Merlin's fucking _hat_, it was cold. Marcus grunted and Harry flicked a heating charm over his husband, throwing his smaller body through the accumulated drifts of snow. After a few moments of amusedly watching his adorable husband trying to battle his way through the snow, Marcus smirked and reached out a large hand, grabbing Harry by the back of his neck and yanking his beau back into his arms. Harry slumped immediately against him and Marcus wrapped his arms around Harry, one hand cupping his husband's bum. He pushed through the snow and came up on the huge sliding doors to the barn, and Harry glanced at them; the left door slid open just enough for Marcus to slip through, clenching Harry to his chest as not to hurt the younger man. He set Harry down on the warm concrete and yanked the door shut, turning around to see his Harry running down to Melody's stall. She was just under eleven months pregnant and the vet had told them that she would give birth within the week.

Marcus grunted softly and followed Harry. Of course Melody had to give bloody birth when they could barely get to her and there was no damn way a vet could come out here if anything went wrong. Harry shoved open the gate and Marcus stepped up next to him just in time to see Melody's perfect foal begin to fight its way out from the thin, protective casing surrounding it. One of Harry's small hands found Marcus's and the bigger of the two squeezed his beau's hand as comfortingly as he dared; Harry tilted his head up and smiled.

Five minutes later, Melody surged to her feet and started nipping at the copper colored foal to have it stand up. Marcus narrowed his eyes and mumbled, "It's a colt."

Harry nodded, leaning heavily on his husband as the colt attempted, for the first time in his life, to use muscles and stand on soft white hooves. "I'd say we let Tom name him..."

"But he'd name him Candy or Fruitcake," Marcus finished with a wry smirk. He picked Harry up in his arms and spun the younger man around, reveling in the bright laughter that radiated from his beau. He pulled Harry up against him and breathed hotly into Harry's beautiful ear, "I say we name him Amor."

Harry's head tilted slightly to the side. "Why?"

Marcus bit down slightly on Harry's shoulder. "Because I love you," he told his husband, and pulled his head back to search those liquid green eyes, watching them soften and Harry's bright nod and the kiss to Marcus's lips in desperate thanks.

"I love you as well, my beautiful Marcus," Harry responded, and lifted his head as the six other horses in the barn neighed in welcome to the colt, their Amor. Marcus's grey eyes flicked from searching Harry's face to see the copper-colored colt pushing to his feet, his dam running her tongue over his coat to dry him off. Harry's entire body softened and he leaned fully into his husband's embrace. "I love you. So much."

Marcus pressed a kiss to Harry's neck, watching the dam and foal interact. In a few minutes, they would have to start cleaning out the stall, take the placenta and bury it outside, and make shopping lists for more foal supplements, but for right now, all they had to do was watch as new life adjusted itself to the world and fall in love all over again.

(O.o)

Year: **2007  
****Nine Years Missing**

Lucius tapped the tip of a quill against the blank piece of parchment on the desk in front of him, staring pensively into the fire off to his right, Draco curled up asleep in front of it. So far, the only names that he could think of to properly find Harry Potter were Alecto and Amycus Carrow, the brother and sister team of the Death Eaters. Lucius had put aside enough money to bribe a dozen people to have them released from Azkaban a week ago, when he and Samael had begun outlining the plan to find Harry Potter. They were recovering under magically-induced comas in the Malfoy Dungeons; Lucius wasn't going to release them until Samael had found a suitable Dark bonding spell to bind the siblings to him. He could not have Amycus killing Harry Potter.

Having the Carrow siblings under his control would be a beautiful thing, Lucius absently reflected as he twirled the quill through his strong fingers. He couldn't stop the memories...Snape killing Dumbledore and nearly having the Dark Lord destroy Draco in punishment...Draco standing at his dying mother's bedside and wrapping her hands in his own, promising that he would do everything possible to keep his father safe...Lucius, handing his wand to the Dark Lord only after Narcissa told him to with her touch...watching his son break into a thousand pieces after watching Severus Snape kill the only person that had ever offered him sanctuary from the Dark Lord...

Lucius pursed his lips as Samael stepped into his office, stepping to the bookcase and running the tips of his fingers over the titles as his eyes scanned the spines. "What are you looking for, Samael?" he queried pleasantly, expecting an answer along the lines of 'bonding spells'.

Samael didn't even look at him as he muttered, "book on Dark potions. There's a potion named _Crudus Armarium_, or Bleeding Chest; if given to an unbonded witch or wizard, it bonds them—magically only, and one-sided—to the first person to touch them." Samael nodded and pulled out a thick book aptly called _Dark Potions_; Lucius rolled his eyes as his friend tucked the book under his arm and stalked back out of the room, brow furrowed as he watched his feet.

Draco sat up and yawned prettily, stretching his arms over his head and Lucius watching as his son's left sleeve slipped down to reveal the faded Dark Mark. He frowned at it and mentally reminded himself to have Samael research removal of the Dark Mark; he didn't like his son's pale skin marked by anything other than bruises.

(O.o)

Year: **2009  
****Eleven Years Missing  
****Three Hours Found**

Samael sat in his room, staring mindlessly at his empty hands. Well, he thought with a sneer, nice going, Prince. You bloody found Potter, and look, he's married. What luck. To motherfucking _Marcus Flint_, one of the, well, duller Slytherins—other than Crabbe and Goyle, but that was a given—that Snape had ever the displeasure to teach. Well, no, that wasn't right. Flint hadn't been _stupid_, per se, but he hadn't applied himself, and he had been one of the few Slytherins that Snape had ever taught that it had been difficult not to take points from his own House.

Flint had just been a lazy bastard, on everything except the Quidditch field, in which he supremely applied himself. And what the hell, he had found Potter before they had? Lucius had used the _Carrows_—the most ruthless and sadistic, other than Bellatrix, Death Eaters under the Dark Lord's hand—to find Potter; how could Flint have beaten them and then warped Potter into his bed? Samael's fists clenched and his grey-black eyes squeezed violently shut. It had been a dull, insipid wish to think that Potter—_Harry Potter_, of all people, the boy Snape had been so cruel to in his years at school in an attempt to hide his fiendishly awful attraction to the son of his childhood nemesis and friend—hadn't met someone; yet, Fate had decided to mock him with Marcus Flint.

He had felt something wriggle through the hand clenched about his throat when Flint had pressed him up against the wall, something indescribable and painful, something that slammed into place and ripped his heart out of rank at the same time. One thin fist unclenched and the tips of his fingers ghosted softly over the handprint-shaped bruise rapidly appearing on his thin neck; he could call his house elf and have her bring a potion to rid him of the bruise, but Samael found himself against the option, for only the reason that the bruise felt like a collar and a collar made him feel like he _belonged_, something that he had searched for, for so long, that he couldn't remember a time in which he wasn't aching inside. He couldn't remember a time in which he couldn't look at his face in the mirror for fear of seeing what his students saw: a monster, the personification of the devil, a man so evil that he could not love. Snape had easily heard the whispers passed from student to student in his classroom, walking down the halls, as they ate their meals in the Great Hall: _I heard Snape is so Dark that if he loves someone, they die...I heard that he's only the Potions Professor because Dumbledore is scared of him and didn't want to set him on the unsuspecting public...I heard that...I know..._

Merlin, he hated children.

Samael leaned his head back against the high-backed chair, and fell asleep, one hand gently resting against his neck and the other tucked about his stomach, as if to trick his mind that someone was sleeping with him.

(O.o)

Marcus bit down on his husband's neck, drawing blood, at the same time his hips drove forward and he released himself into his beau's trembling body, coating his Harry's walls with semen. Harry let out a trembling cry and came as well, spurting all over their touching stomachs, and sagged back onto the bed, Marcus resting as gently as he could on top of him, moving his blood-stained lips in a hot, wet track to his beau's lips. It still shocked Marcus that he was so lucky, that he had _Harry Potter_ as his own, as to do whatever he wished with, as everything he wanted. He had been raised to believe that he would be married off to some unsuspecting Slytherin bint, have the required one male child, and then ignore her until they both died; that's how his parents had lived. It was how he had expected to live; then, one day, he had decided that the bint his parents had chosen for him wasn't good enough, and, grabbing his wand, a cloak, and one of his father's bags that held the Gringotts key to Marcus's personal vault and anything he could shove in it, he just walked out of Flint Manor.

Two months later, he had found himself in the small Muggle town of Townshend, watching as a little boy with bright red eyes held the hand of a beautiful young man with a scar on his forehead that looked suspiciously like a lightning bolt and the brightest green eyes Marcus had ever seen. He rented a hotel room and stayed for another month, asking around about the young man and his son, and at the end of the month, appeared to talk to Harry Potter on the man's own land. It was still a shock to him that Harry hadn't just cursed him right then and there, but miracles happened and Marcus hadn't argued. He rarely argued, and when he did, it was only when physical force didn't work and Harry wasn't there to back him up magically; so, on the verge of bloody never, actually. Marcus wasn't very smart—his parents had drilled that into him ever since he could talk—but he figured that he could connect facts pretty easily. He was smart enough for Harry, and that's what mattered.

Harry giggled up at him and Marcus grunted under his breath, rolling off the younger man and pulling Harry into his arms, still inside his younger lover. It was Harry's favorite way of sleeping, and in the morning, Marcus could wake Harry up by pounding into him. Worked out well for both of them. Harry leaned his chin up and Marcus obediently dropped a kiss onto those beautiful waiting lips, and kept his gaze on his husband's face as Harry quickly dropped off into sleep.

"I love you," Marcus whispered gruffly, as soon as he knew Harry was asleep, just as he did every night, and smiled softly as Harry curled into his chest with a contented sigh. He tried to say it as often as it occurred to Marcus that he should tell Harry that he loved him, but it didn't happen very often, so he had long ago made it habit to tell Harry every night. Better than not at all, he figured; after all, Harry knew he loved him. If his beau didn't, then Harry was a lot stupider than Marcus gave him credit for. He pressed a barely bloody kiss to Harry's scar and after glancing at the door to make sure it was closed—it was—and flicking the first wand his got his hand on to make sure the wards were still up, to keep the most precious thing in his life safe, he placed the wand on the nightstand, lifted his hips slightly to push his soft cock slightly higher into Harry's pliant body, and quickly fell off the cliff into sleep.

(O.o)

Tom glanced up at the clock above the sink in the kitchen and wondered what he was supposed to do until nine; he had just under an hour until Dobby would lock him in his room. It wasn't punishment; it was just how his dad had told him kids were put to bed. Dobby would unlock his door at sunrise and Tom had to meet one of his parents out at the barn to help them feed the horses. He usually met his dad in the morning and his father at night; his dad usually joked how his father was a lazy bastard who couldn't get up in the morning to save his life. Tom, who never knew how to reply to that, would only smile slightly and push another few bales of hay down from the loft. He loved his parents dearly, but, sometimes, they were weird as hell.

He would go out to the barn and hang out with Amor, their only stallion. He had been born on his fifth birthday six years ago; his father had once told him that they hadn't allowed him to name the beautiful copper horse because of a fruitcake, which hadn't made _any_ sense, but Tom had just nodded and watched the love fill his father's eyes as he looked at the magnificent beast, his dad standing on the other side of the arena, gently talking to the huge horse. Tom stepped outside, absently flicking a soft warming charm at himself, and gently closed the back door behind him.

He knew his parents loved him. Why did he feel so weird, then? Why did he feel as if there was a pit of darkness and steeped misery hiding under a floorboard right in front of him, and if he took just one wrong step, he would fall in it and never be able to claw his way out? Why did he feel that the only possible way to stop himself from falling into that nameless pit was to get to know the obviously involved Malfoys? Why did he want to hurt people? And who the hell was the Dark Lord Voldemort and why did the name sound so painfully _familiar_?

And why did he already have a wand when he'd never gone to Diagon Alley?

(O.o)

**End Chapter Two  
**_Morsus:_ Latin for pain.

_The boy climbs the mountain in torment  
He doesn't really care about the view  
Only the little rose is on his mind  
He brings it to his sweetheart  
_'Rosenrot', Rammstein

**Review Response:  
**ShadowLore: Thank you! I completely agree about the lack of MF/HP stories. It's definitely an underrated pairing. I've got some good ideas (I think, anyway) about adding SS into the relationship and I figure it's probably going to be a lot different from how traditional (not that I'd know, but...yeah) ménage de trios's work; SS is going to go through a _ton_ of angst, fyi. Thanks again!


	3. Everything I Want Morsus, Ch3

**Disclaimer: I own naught.**

**Warnings:** Slash, of the extreme and incestuous variety. Series compatible; ignores epilogue and any actions of Harry after the death of Voldemort.  
**Pairings:** Established Marcus Flint/Harry Potter, eventual Marcus Flint/Harry Potter/Severus Snape; Established Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy, eventual Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy/Tom Riddle Flint.  
**A Note:** Snape will be referred to the name of the visage he is currently in; Samael Prince=Severus Snape, and vice versa.  
Review responses are at the end of the chapter.  
Also, for the round pen and horse scenes, please note that I only have my horses to draw the words and actions off of, so they might not be utterly correct, as I own...different animals.

* * *

_**Morsus  
**_**By: Bucket/Replacement for the Stars/filthyfreedom**

Chapter Three:  
Everything I Want  
Year: **2005  
****Seven Years Missing**

_But as far as I can see, I've got everything I want  
_'Alright', Darius Rucker

(O.o)

Harry glanced up from pulling on a riding boot and smiled slightly at his trainer, a tall woman with bright red hair tied back in a loose ponytail and constantly amused green eyes as she stepped up next to him, her own horse directly behind her. At first, she had reminded him of his mother, or of the few memories he had seen of her, but now, he couldn't even connect his smiling trainer with the young woman he had seen in Snape's memories after the man had died looking into his eyes. Harry stood up and smiled at his husband when he stepped out of the tack room with their new barn dog, a yellow Lab pup named Swanson, dangling from one huge hand; Marcus stepped up next to him and wrapped a long arm around Harry's waist. Swanson wriggled out of Marcus's grasp and fell to the ground; after picking himself up, the Lab sat on Harry's boot and looked curiously around.

"What're you working on with Harry today, Rebecca?" Marcus asked, not looking at her but his eyes travelling the lines of the horse's legs and glancing over its chest, the line of its face and the color of its eyes. He had grown up with horses; being as ugly as he was, his parents had taught him everything they figured he needed to know and then shoved him out to the barn. Ironic how those assholes had sent him to the barn for punishment for being one ugly son-of-a-bitch—literally—and then his pretty little husband was a horse freak.

Rebecca smiled brightly, green eyes softening at the love obvious between these two men. When she had met Harry and Marcus two months ago—just four months after they had been married—she had still held her father's view on homosexuals: Bible says they're wrong, an abomination, so that's what they are. But after seeing their tender caresses and the soft looks passed between grey eyes and green eyes, how Marcus had thrown himself in front of Amor to protect Harry when the stallion had a bout of bucking and how Marcus kept his eyes on his little husband the entire time he was riding, not daring to look away, Rebecca's opinion had rapidly changed. "Groundwork with Amor, Marcus, and then bareback on Tea." Marcus nodded in approval and leaned down to scoop Swanson up again, pressing a kiss to Harry's lips right before he walked away.

"Stay safe," Marcus told his husband, and Rebecca's smile widened. She, like everyone else that met Marcus and Harry, wished for a love like theirs. Harry smiled softly and looked up at his trainer, who winked at him and gave him the reins of her horse so he could walk behind her without the threat of being kicked. Tom watched his daddy talk to the lady with the red hair and giggled, jumping down from the hay loft and landing in a pile of used shavings and waste; he giggled again and ran off, intent on finding Swanson so he could have a physical argument with the rambunctious puppy.

(O.o)

Harry stood outside the round pen, watching Rebecca's agile body work with the two-year-old colt, his copper coat flashing brightly in the sun. She turned her body and pointed the stick in her hand out to the left; Amor whirled around and went the other way before he reached the imaginary line, Rebecca and Harry smiling as brightly as the sun. Harry's green eyes flickered between Rebecca and his beautiful horse, trying to keep up as both bodies shifted subtly and body language changed dramatically with only a muscle shift or the placement of a leg.

"See how my torso is pointed behind his haunch?" Rebecca asked, green eyes flashing over to land on Harry's, whose own emerald eyes narrowed thoughtfully as they flickered between her torso and Amor's haunch. After a few long moments, he nodded; Rebecca spun around and threw her right arm out, Amor whipping around and beginning to canter, throwing a buck at Rebecca. Her brow furrowed and she whipped around, tossing the stick to her left hand and pointing it to the side. Amor ran directly through and after giving him another chance, which Amor didn't take, Rebecca spun around and ran to right where Amor was going to be, scaring the shit out of both Amor and Harry, the horse whipping back around and running off, bucking again. Rebecca swore under her breath and shook her head, turning to Harry. "You sure Marcus has been working with him?"

Harry nodded quickly. "He told me he has."

The huge man rumbled behind Harry, who squeaked softly in shock; "'Course I've been workin' with the damn beast. Once a bloody day, in the round pen." Marcus pushed Harry up against the bars of the round pen and glanced down at the younger man interestedly. "You tellin' this lady lies, beau?"

Harry shook his head as Rebecca snorted under her breath and turned back to argue with the nicely developing colt. Harry tilted his head back as Marcus breathed down his neck; he wriggled against his husband and let out a happy sigh. Life could not be better.

(O.o)

Tom sat with the happily panting Lab pup in his lap, tucked in between two slats of a pasture fence and his feet in a water trough. He leaned forward and scooped up a small handful of water, bringing it up to Swanson's mouth so the Lab could refresh himself. Swanson's entire small body wriggled as he tried to nudge at Tom's hand; instead, he somehow flipped over Tom's tiny knees and into the trough. Tom cried out in laughter and surprise and stood up, stepping delicately around the puppy that was desperately trying to climb out of the trough, and lifting a foot over the edge, he froze as his father's massive black horse, aptly named Haine, snorted loudly and began running towards him.

Tom fell forward, curling against the edge of the trough, and Swanson began barking, loud and ordering; Tom put his hands up in the air, as if they could protect him from Haine, and then, the moment before the horse's huge hooves destroyed him, all he heard was a small _boom_, followed by a loud and nigh deafening _whoosh_, and, suddenly, Swanson wasn't barking anymore.

(O.o)

Year: **2008  
****Ten Years Missing**

Tom looked up from one of his dad's old potion textbooks, frowning softly and watching as his father grumbling something apparently hilarious into his dad's ear. "Why don't we have a dog?" he asked them; it had been bothering him furiously for the past week. His dad choked on his whisky and his father froze.

Wide green eyes met his and then flittered away. "Err...we had one when you were seven, Tom, don't you remember him?"

Tom nodded, slumping back into the middle cushion of the couch, rubbing at his face with his hand. Surely he remembered that happy little yellow pup, but he couldn't, for the life of him, remember what had happened to it. All he remembered was a loud scream and some huge black horse and his father's worried grey eyes and large hands shaking him, desperate to make sure he was alright, and seeing something indescribable and trying to apologize desperately for it and his father shaking his head, telling him that family was more important than a horse. "Yeah, a yellow puppy. Why'd we get rid of it?"

His father shook his head and set his dad aside, standing up and walking out of the sitting room with his hands up in the air, mumbling something that sounded like, "You deal with this, he was your kid first."

His dad shook his head good-naturedly and tucked himself into the pocket of heat left by his father, watching Tom with narrowed emerald eyes. Tom was well aware that he was adopted, as two wizards could have children but it was so rare that it was neatly thought impossible. He didn't mind, though; having adoptive parents was better than having no parents at all. Hell, and he couldn't ask for better parents than the ones he had now, even if they were both male and one of them was supposed to be extremely famous. His father had told him everything he knew about his dad, chortling the entire time that he said the name Voldemort—that damned name that had always sparked something unimaginable in Tom—and casting his son curious looks occasionally. Tom hadn't understood what was so funny but figured he'd learn in time.

His dad sighed softly. "Do you remember a horse named Haine?"

Tom nodded and placed the potions text, closed, on the scratched coffee table in front of him, turning to focus his entire attention on his father. "Yes."

(O.o)

Year: **2006  
****Eight Years Missing**

Harry giggled as Marcus lifted him up from the kitchen table, shaking his head with that Slytherin amusement that Harry found so arousing. Dobby appeared behind them and took the bowls of fruit and chocolate syrup—he didn't even want to _think_ about what his Masters were doing—back to the house elf kitchen below the basement, shaking his head tolerably.

Marcus grumbled softly at his precious beau, pressing Harry to the nearest wall and ravishing him senseless. Tongues danced; lips pressed harshly; teeth grated; Harry groaned loudly and wouldn't have it any other way. Marcus ached somewhere deep and pulled back slightly, slamming a hand into one of Harry's shoulders when the younger man tried to follow his mouth, and he growled, "Either we go upstairs or I take you right here." Harry chuckled softly and shifted obviously, Marcus's eyes flashing.

"Dobby will keep Tom occupied," Harry told him by way of an answer, and Marcus growled loudly and re-attacked his beau's lips.

Hands pressed to skin and two separate gasps were heard, Harry arching achingly into his lover's capable and talented hands; no one would ever take this from him, they couldn't, they wouldn't _dare_. This, right here, was all the world he could ever need. Harry moaned against heated skin and locked eyes with his husband; "I love you," Marcus grunted out, and Harry whimpered, arching again, against the thick, muscular and strong body of his husband, and as he met Marcus's honest grey eyes, he fell in love all over again.

(O.o)

Harry stepped up next to Tom as his son moved his bone-white wand from hand to hand. At first, Harry had debated not giving Tom the wand that had killed and tortured—himself included, a lifetime ago—so many people, but as Marcus had rumbled, "There is only one wand for every wizard," Harry had nodded and demurred the situation. Tom had never asked why he had a wand already, even when Harry had told him that wizards didn't usually receive their wands until they were eleven; or ten, as Marcus had pointed out, in pureblood society. The three horses in the outdoor pasture, Amor being one of them, grazed quietly and occasionally, with pinned ears and snapping teeth, told one another to get the hell out of their way.

Tom looked up at his dad and lowered his left hand, wand tip pointed to the ground; he wrapped his dad's arm around his shoulders and leaned into the green-eyed man, letting out a soft, contented sigh. For the moment, nothing mattered; Harry didn't think of the implications of saving the squalling red-eyed child from underneath the chair in Voldemort's mind, Tom didn't wonder about the mysteries of life or the blood-filled dreams he had that always made something deep inside of him ache when his eyes finally flashed open with a lips emitting a soundless scream, didn't think about the words already forming on his lips when he met his dad's soft green gaze or the random bursts of betrayal that battered his chest when his father smirked at him. He simply didn't think, and that was good enough for him.

(O.o)

Year: **2008  
****Ten Years Missing**

His dad smiled sadly at him and gave Tom a soft nod, standing up and wandering out of the sitting room, leaving Tom to deal with his shock all alone. Tom found himself grateful that he had set his potions book aside; he wasn't sure what to do with his hands and inherently knew that he would have thrown something into the gently roaring fireplace or torn it apart with magic-assisted rage. He had _killed_. Killed a _puppy_ and his father's treasured horse, and hadn't even been _punished_ for it. His dad had quietly explained what Tom had done—covered the pasture in Haine's blood and guts and bones and brain and _life_, which his parents hadn't been able to remove with magic, as well as filled the water trough with Swanson's blood and gore, staining the metal and finally causing his father to shake his head in muted dismay and crush it with his hands—and now Tom sat in silence, figuring that it was _no fucking wonder_ that he had suppressed the memory; how could he have _done_ something like that? He had been raised to believe that hurting animals was the ultimate wrong, as animals inherently trusted and believed in people; animals were innocent, the _ultimate_ innocent, as no human could meet that innocence, not even a babe.

Tom's red eyes squeezed shut as his fists clenched on top of his thighs and he felt himself being sucked into the mind of his seven-year-old self, seeing the world through a child's eyes:

_Tom fell forward, curling against the edge of the trough, and Swanson began barking, loud and ordering; Tom put his hands up in the air, as if they could protect him from Haine, and then, the moment before the horse's huge hooves destroyed him, all he heard was a small boom, followed by a loud and nigh deafening whoosh, and, suddenly, Swanson wasn't barking anymore._

_Tom looked up to see something that his dad would grow lightly green at: Haine was no longer the horse that had his father had specially researched and bought for a price that he had muttered at for a week afterwards, but now a wide, wet splatter of blood and bones; Tom could see the large heart, severed in half by his magic, lying a good five feet away, and it moved slightly and Tom let out a primal scream, wishing only for the comfort of his fathers. It came just as Tom was shaking his head in denial and sitting up, looking to see where Swanson had disappeared to._

_He turned his head back, to glance curiously into the water trough and then to stare in disgusted shock. Swanson, as well, was no more. His soft yellow pelt now lay in floating strips on the edges of the blood-filled water, and Tom could see the small, thin ribs sunk to the bottom of the trough, staring up at him with caged eyes that he threw himself away from, one hand slipping on Haine's blood, and he fell into a swamp of loss and destruction; his father landed right where Tom had been cowering and those soft grey eyes fell immediately on his son and large, callused hands outstretched for his son._

"_Tom!" his father barked, and he slammed forward, falling onto his knees next to Tom, somehow not slipping in the swamp of blood that was slowly pooling; Tom, whose entire body was shaking in his fear; the huge man's softened as they caressed Tom's face and his father rasped, "Tom, are you alright? Did Haine hurt you? Where's Swanson? What happened, son? _Are you okay?_"_

_Tom gasped out an indistinguishable response, and once he heard his dad's concerned voice, his eyes rolled back in his head as his hands wrapped tightly around his father's strong wrists and refused to let go._

As he had not done on that day three years ago, Tom leaned forward and stuck his head between his knees, throwing up the black bile of guilt and horror.

He was a _killer_. How could his parents dare to look at him? How could they keep him in their house, when they knew what he had done? Tom knew that his dad had done some horrible things in the Second Wizarding War, the war that his father had sat patiently in Flint Manor for and waited out, but his dad hadn't ever killed an innocent animal! His dad hadn't ever exploded a horse and a _puppy_! His dad was a man unsurpassed, a man able to forgive his son when he _killed_ the two things that he had been taught to never abuse, never take advantage of, never _hurt_. His father might not have contributed to the War, and he and his dad had lovingly recollected their interactions at Hogwarts in front of Tom with wide smiles of reflection on their pleased faces, and his father might not be a _good_ person, but he hadn't ever _killed_ an animal!

His dad had tried to placate Tom by telling him that he hadn't known what he was doing, that both he and his father weren't scared of him and completely forgave him for acting in self-defense towards an animal that was certainly too dangerous to be around a child, but he had never mentioned Swanson. Tom took a deep breath and squeezed his knees to his temples, grinding his hands into tight, painful fists around his nipples, and knew that he was never forgiven for taking the life of an innocent puppy.

Someone dropped into the couch next to Tom and two huge hands crashed onto his thin back, pulling him awkwardly onto his father's wide lap. Tom curled into his father's lap and twisted his fists in his father's dirty white t-shirt, pressing his face into his father's thick shoulder, sniffling pathetically. Huge arms wrapped around him, comforting in their heat, and his father leaned his head against Tom's. "We never blamed you for Swanson or Haine's deaths, Tom," his father told him, voice gruff. "Your dad knew that it was self-defense; as he told you earlier, Haine was too dangerous to be around a kid of only seven." Tom could ignore the hasty kiss pressed to the top of his head but chose not to, lifting his head and meeting his father's calm and concerned gaze. He couldn't really remember any time in which he had been held in his father's lap; his parents were affectionate but usually only to one another. It didn't bother Tom; he was more of a loner, as it were, and he had grown used to it.

His father nodded slowly, as if agreeing with something Tom hadn't said. "We love you, Tom," his father grunted, gaze sliding away; Tom remembered a lecture on that love wasn't something Slytherins felt, and if they ever did, they were to either conceal it so well they forgot it existed—something that he was well aware was impossible—or to only admit it in a situation in which they could benefit from it. He kept his red eyes on his father's, waiting patiently, his fists loosening but not releasing the dirty white shirt. Tom realized the need his dad felt to constantly be in these arms; he had rarely, if ever, felt so safe—it was nearly addictive, and if he loved his father in a manner that was in a manner that was the opposite of what he felt now, familial and slightly hero-esque, Tom knew he would seek out these arms and this embrace even more—and wondered if he would ever feel this sensation of ultimate _protection_ in anyone else's arms. He desperately hoped so. "I know that you've been raised to never hurt an animal, which you should _never_ do, but Haine and Swanson..." his father grunted under his breath and shook his head, as if ridding it of a thought. "That was right of you. You did _nothing_ wrong." Grey met red and Tom thrummed with the conviction his father held; before he could stop himself, he nodded in agreement. "Good." His father's arms tightened slightly before gently moving him to the side; his dad sidled in and curled against his father's chest, ever-watchful green eyes locked curiously on his son's face.

A golden hand gently caressed Tom's face and he pressed wonderingly into it, purring softly under his breath. Was this what his fathers' relationship was like? This constant comfort and shared body warmth? If so, Tom had to find it as quickly as he could, lest he wither away into a world of delirium and unreality. "You will always be our son," his dad murmured, and Tom's eyes flipped open; how did his dad know he had held that vague worry in the back of his mind? "We would never let you go, no matter _what_. Am I clear?"

Tom nodded in response, and closed his eyes, curling up against his father's chest and intertwining his hand with his dad's as he rested his head against his father's shoulder, falling asleep to the tempo of their combined love and acceptance.

(O.o)

Year: **2009  
****Eleven Years Missing  
****Eight Hours Found**

Samael dragged himself wordlessly out of his room after Transfiguring the clothes he had worn the day previous into something slightly different, and floated himself downstairs, unable to manage the stairs, and quickly found the kitchen, dropping his thin body onto the bench at the kitchen table, murmuring absently for his house elf, Shy, and when she appeared, politely asking him for what he wanted, he ordered his usual breakfast: a heavy mug of heavy black coffee and a piece of dry toast. She nodded softly and disappeared, reappearing just as Marcus Flint wandered in and glanced over him. Shy danced around the unfamiliar kitchen table but obediently set down his coffee and toast before disappearing again; Samael looked slowly up at the huge man as he dropped his heavy body right across the table from Samael, smirking knowingly at him.

Samael froze; one hand danced over his neck, where he could timidly feel the bruise that Marcus had inflicted on him last night. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_, he reflected, gulping down some of the coffee and not meeting Marcus's grey eyes. How could he have forgotten to glamour the bruise? He didn't have to rid himself of it, but glamouring it...that was easy enough done. Marcus chuckled softly at him and Samael's grey-black eyes darted up to meet Marcus's warm grey ones, attempting to pull himself back but feeling himself swallowed up by them anyway. "Like bruises, eh, Prince?" Marcus chuckled, and ripped off a corner of Samael's toast and shoving it in his mouth. Samael only downcast his eyes, unable to chastise the man who had once been his student; he drained the rest of his coffee and attempted to flee back to the room that had been provided for him, but ran into a small, warm body instead.

Amused green eyes tore at him and Samael threw himself quickly away, whimpering in the back of his mind; can't even _touch_ him, can't even _hold_ him, Mordred knew he wanted to, wanted to touch and please and caress and moon over as if Harry Potter was a specimen to be treasured—which he _was_, even more than Samael could recognize—and he wanted to fall in love and follow after Harry Potter as if he were a god and press adoring kisses to the man's perfectly arched golden feet and just have those beautiful hands touch his skin, hold him, caress him. Harry smirked at him and nudged Samael back to the kitchen table, quickly busying himself with making coffee the Muggle way. Samael noted that with distaste as he gracefully took his seat, looking alertly between Harry and Marcus, not allowing his eyes to cradle the perfect globes of Harry's arse or the line of his back or the slope of his shoulders; Merlin knew that he would follow that boy until the earth ended.

Marcus Flint said nothing, grey eyes only watching Samael with an emotion that the Potions Master couldn't name. Once or twice, Marcus's lips opened as if he was going to say something—Samael could help but notice the grace of said lips—and then snapped shut nearly immediately. Harry was quickly done, hands cradling around a mug of steaming black coffee, and he deposited himself in Marcus's lap, carefully sipping at the hot liquid as his eyes wandered Samael's face.

_Must he parade in front of me what I can never have?_ Samael thought desperately, and then physically pushed that thought away with a ruthlessness that he had wondered if he had lost with the guise of Samael Prince. The three men sat in silence and as Samael dropped himself into it, he could feel the wan comfort of _finally_ being in Harry's presence after so many years of longing surrounding him and he closed his eyes and gently breathed it in. His hands sat on top of the table, palms flat against the scarred wood, and as his eyes squeezed shut, he felt two warm hands of differing sizes and strengths gently cradle his long fingers. He didn't dare open his eyes enough to see the mocking and cruel looks that he was sure that had taken over their faces, but just enough to see the hand that he had dreamed about for so long touching _his_ hand. Samael nodded and huskily breathed as softly as he could; he gently clenched the hands touching his.

Magic swirled through him and Samael's breath caught in his throat; he could feel the Dark magic that Marcus had been raised with whipping through him and the residual magical block that had been raised by the hideous Muggles that Harry had somehow lived through—for a moment, he felt Marcus's possessive rage and furious shock and his vow to murder, as painfully and bloody and destructively as possible, whomever had done this to what Marcus Flint had deemed as _his_—and the wan confusion that had cried through Harry's small body as he glimpsed through the glamour that hid Severus Snape from the world and the dark amusement that Marcus experienced just this morning when Harry had finally made him agree to something. Something tugged piteously at Samael's heart and he screwed his eyes tightly shut as possible, feeling the beginnings of an established bond rip through him; _why would they want _me_?_

He could feel the startlingly familiar magic of their son swamp the room and before Samael could stop himself, he ripped away and fled back up to his room, locking and warding the door behind him. Tom held up his hands, mumbling that he didn't bloody want to know, and quickly fixed himself a stern cup of tea, ignoring the warm satisfaction that radiated from his fathers. No, he did _not_ want to know. He paused slightly, cradling the warm mug between his hands—a habit stolen from his dad—as he turned to look at his fathers, who were leaning fully into one another, communicating with touches and soft glances, and slowly asked, "You're not...messing with him, are you?"

Two stern glares were directed at him and Tom nodded, wordlessly receiving his answer even as his dad answered anyway, "_No_, Thomas. If we invite another into our bed, it is permanent."

His father grunted softly and nodded slowly, as if he couldn't even contemplate the fact that he was even _thinking_ about bringing Samael Prince—Severus Snape, Marcus darkly reflected, and unconsciously tightened his arms around his precious husband—into their bed, and lowly told his son, as well as his beau, "Yes. He will be _ours_."

Tom nearly blushed at the blinding smile his dad graced his father with, and silently retreated from the kitchen, summoning Dobby to put up a silencing charm as he had a feeling that his father needed..._reassurance._ Tom shuddered lightly at the thought and waited patiently for the Malfoys outside his unlocked room, sipping his tea idly.

(O.o)

Year: **1999  
****One Year Missing**

In the bed at St. Mungo's, a thin form threw his head from side to side, held down to the bed with both magical and physical restraints as he had attempted to kill himself once or twice and self-mutilate even more. The Healers were lost on what to do with him; finally, Lucius Malfoy had sternly ordered them to simply leave his long-time family friend alone, as he simply needed to self heal and no amount of magic could bring him out of the coma that Nagini's poison had induced.

Behind closed lids, a man lost in a world of dreams held justice to a young man with liquid green eyes and a blinding smile.

_Snape—for he was not yet Samael Prince—walked through a fresher version of the Forbidden Forest, one person at his side and a lumbering form directly behind him. He did not meet the soft gazes of either man, not trusting himself with what he would do; would he run? Would he move into their welcoming arms? Would he fall to his knees, head bowed, and plead for acceptance? Would he ask to belong to only them, to these two people that he did not even know exist? Would he fall in love?_

_He did not know, so he did not entertain the thoughts for what he was certain could not happen; he did not look into either gaze. If either man touched him, he accepted the touch until he found himself enjoying it, then he would move quickly away and clench his fists behind wide leaves and stand behind thick trees until his breath had regained._

_At other times, he would be alone, walking through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, in his teacher's robes and looking for rule-breaking students; he never found them, always searching and slipping into the shadows when he thought he heard voices as to surprise the students more and sequentially take more points, but never finding the loss he was searching for. Now he would stand at the bare edge of the Quidditch pitch, an unfamiliar broom in his hand and two unfamiliar forms darting in the air above him, and he found himself wishing to join them, to take flight and dart through the air like a bird without wings._

Tears slipped silently from closed lids and tracked down chiseled cheeks, resting in the thin pool of flesh behind his pointed chin; yet, as he was alone—as he always was—nobody saw. Nobody would ever see.

_He saw an owl holding two letters and the look of shock on a beloved face; a red-eyed boy's shock and betrayal at finding out that his own dad had killed him; green eyes rolling, a smirk twisting a beautiful face, and taking a sip from a mug of hot coffee, his lips placed directly on top of where Snape's had been; following behind three forms as they strode confidently down Diagon Alley, and meeting warm green eyes and being tucked up against a huge, kind body and a hot, hard hand clamping possessively to his hip as a small hand intertwined with his; blinking away tears as he opened the unexpected bonding gift and gracelessly pulling out a plain black collar and throwing himself—fuck propriety—into the welcoming arms of the two men and nodding as determinedly as he could, then kneeling and begging wordlessly for two hands, one huge and one small, to gently clasp the collar around his neck and then two different but still beloved mouths to press similar kisses to the back of his head; tucked up against the side of a huge man, with his eyes flickering nervously between the two warm gazes directed at him—grey and green—and shivering in pleasure when a large hand gently tilted his chin up and grumbled, "You are ours."_

_Then, he was standing in front of the Dark Lord, Nagini hissing around his Master's feet, and his regret for all that he had done and not done, more regret than he had ever felt before overwhelming him; and he momentarily closed his eyes, wishing that he had told Harry Potter that he was loved._

(O.o)

Year: **2009  
****Eleven Years Missing  
****Seven Hours Found**

Marcus grunted softly as he watched his beau wandlessly and wordlessly picked up two heavy bale of hay and wrapped his arms around Harry's thin shoulders as his husband glanced down the aisle and all of the hay gates slipped open obediently. Flakes separated and floated down the aisle into the correct stalls; Harry's head fell back and he let out a thin moan, one of the sections of hay wiggling dangerously before Harry glanced down at it and the hay slipped into the stall.

"Harry," Marcus rumbled, and scooped his beau up into his arms as the last flakes of hay were deposited and the last hay gate was closed; he slammed his husband lightly into the closest wall and immediately bit down on that delectable neck. Harry whimpered and writhed obediently against him; they could do this every day for a thousand years and Marcus would never tire of it. "What do you think of our black haired guest?" He was well aware he would have to bring up the possibility of Samael Prince being the final piece to their bonding; Harry would never bring it up for fear of infuriating Marcus and causing him to throw Samael out. Better to have the man in their house and not be able to touch than gone and never to be seen again—that would be Harry's logic, always so _goddamn_ selfless that it was sometimes painful to live with.

Harry stilled immediately and Marcus stepped back, not wanting to pressure his beau with touch, and Harry conjured up chairs that both men took, not looking at one another; Harry sighed softly and buried his head in his hands. "He feels...like another one of us," Harry murmured, not looking at his husband.

Marcus grunted softly and reached out his hands, resting the tops of his forearms on his knees, palms tilted towards Harry's bowed head. He waited until Harry's attention was caught and those beautiful hands were placed gently in his. Harry's head bowed forward as Marcus slowly murmured, "While you were sleeping this morning, I found his wand and flicked a few spells with it. Harry...do you know what it means when you can use another wizard's wand?"

Harry shrugged idly and slowly shook his head. "I know that I've used your wand a few times without realizing it."

Marcus nodded softly and pressed a brief kiss to the back of Harry's hand, right on top of the faded scar: _I will not tell lies_. Marcus's teeth bared for a moment as he remembered the cause of that scar—Umbridge—and, once again, vowed to destroy that woman. "Only witches and/or wizards with compatible magic can use one another's wands," Marcus admitted, a pained look crossing his heavy features, and then continued, "So that means..."

"He's our third," Harry finished lowly, eyes wide as they sought out Marcus's. "Holy..."

"Merlin's fucking _hat_," Marcus completed, and immediately pulled Harry into his arms. This was something he needed to think about; they couldn't just invite someone into their bed and expect everything to work out perfectly—Marcus was well aware that if they did that, Harry's incredibly bad luck, often countered by extraordinarily good luck, would suddenly flare up and possibly kill all three of them, or something similarly painful. He knew that Harry's promise of six years ago—that he would, always, _always_ be Marcus's, and any decision on allowing a third into their bed would ultimately fall to Marcus—still held true, but he had to make sure. Slowly, he asked, "If we do this..."

Harry interrupted him with a gentle, loving kiss on his lips and a confirming, "Yes, Marcus, all decisions fall to you. I am _yours_; if you let S...err, Snape into our bed, all I ask that he wear no glamours. I...I just need to see _him_, not some guise."

"You are _mine_," Marcus repeated gruffly, and at Harry's affirming nod, he threw the boy up against the nearest wall and quite thoroughly proceeded to ravish his little beau senseless. For Harry, he would allow Snape—Prince, whoever the bloody hell he was, Marcus didn't care—in their bed, but on his _own_ terms. He sneered at that thought; oh, he might have Harry, but the man that Harry had told him to allow in their bed was going to be _his_, in face and name and soul and all that the man knew.

Today, tomorrow, and yesterday, he would be king.

(O.o)

**End Chapter Three  
**_Morsus_: Latin for pain.

A/N: Yes, this chapter was not as long as the other ones—three pages shorter, actually. I tried to make it longer but the chapter just ended here. So, here's chapter three. Happy readings; review, if you will. It is most appreciated. Yes, and this chapter is slightly different; no Malfoys! What is the world to do? *wink*  
-Replacement for the Stars

**A small correction:** During Tom's flashback to when he was seven and killed Haine and Swanson, I wrote 'eyes' instead of 'hands'. It has been edited and corrected, as well as a few other inconsistencies I noticed when re-reading the chapter. If there are any other such wrongs, please leave a note in a review and it will be corrected. Thank you.

**Something Else:** Also, if there are any worries about how quickly Marcus and Harry are allowing Samael/Severus into their relationship, please cast those worries away. Yes, while it may seem to be too soon, please note that there will still be a lot of things for Marcus to work through with SS and that will draw the beginning of their true relationship out. I...just don't have the ability to put off the beginning of a relationship, but I do have the ability to give angst. Please do remember that HP and MF were married after only six months of living together--three months of being _together_, if memory serves correct--and so any relationship that had to do with them will begin startlingly quickly and last for bloody ever. Thanks for reading.


	4. Crow Morsus, Ch4

**Disclaimer: I own naught.**

**Warnings:** Slash, of the extreme and incestuous variety. Series compatible; ignores epilogue and any actions of Harry after the death of Voldemort. There are a few OCs in this chapter. Paul is not insane. He's just based off a guy I used to know.  
**Pairings:** Established Marcus Flint/Harry Potter, eventual Marcus Flint/Harry Potter/Severus Snape; Established Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy, eventual Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy/Tom Riddle Flint.  
**A Note:** Snape will be referred to the name of the visage he is currently in; Samael Prince=Severus Snape, and vice versa.  
Review responses are at the end of the chapter.

**This will be the last chapter posted until NaNoWriMo is over.  
**This chapter contains a bit of past Amycus Carrow/Samael Prince. Non-graphic, but there anyway. Also, I am unsure of what sort of trucks there are in England, so I simply used the ones we have in the States. You are very able to bugger off if that's not pleasing.

* * *

_**Morsus  
**_**By: Bucket/Replacement for the Stars/filthyfreedom**

Chapter Four:  
Crow  
Year: **2007  
Nine Years Missing**

'_Old Adam, the carrion crow.'  
_–_Thomas Lovell Beddoes_

(O.o)

Lucius watched Samael closely as the man finished the spell to bind the Carrow siblings to him, and then he pressed one hand to the bare skin above each sibling's heart, and then found the sadistic warmth that seeped immediately from the brother and sister to be mildly disconcerting. While Samael had told him that he would only be connected to the siblings until they awoke, the black haired man had coldly warned him that the quick connection could infest him; Samael had muttered something about the only outlet for the Carrow sadism in Lucius would be Draco, something that Lucius has specifically ignored, because he couldn't imagine the possibility of hurting his son. Now, however...for just a moment, Lucius wondered what curve his son's back would arch into if he sent whipping curses into the meat of Draco's thighs, into the perfect curve of his arse, what shape his lips would take as he screamed, or how his muscles would tense against the strain of being told to keep quiet as the pain grew in intensity. Then, the moment slipped past just as Alecto opened her thin black eyes and sat up, turning immediately to her brother. Lucius stepped around them so that he could see the sibling's faces.

They were even uglier than he remembered, Lucius reflected as he glanced up at Samael, who was smugly smirking, staring absently at a far-off corner. Lucius sighed mentally; really, must Samael be so bloody proud of himself for being the control figure in a Dark potion, especially one in which the _Carrow_ siblings were pushed back into the world? A single crease appeared in Lucius's high forehead, the only visible sign that Lucius would allow; there was a time in which that the entire Dark side, under the Dark Lord's hand, had been convinced that Severus Snape was more sadistic than the Carrow siblings, although Lucius had once wondered if that was even possible.

No, Lucius reflected, as Amycus turned immediately to his sister and Lucius's attention was caught by Draco stepping into the room, grey eyes locked softly on his father, if Severus Snape had been anything, he had been a masochist. Only Severus would have nodded to Dumbledore's orders without thinking of the consequences for himself, only Severus would have taught students for _years_, just to keep Harry Potter safe because of an oath, only Severus would have committed suicide—practically—by falling in love with someone he could never have.

Lucius was thinking of Lily Evans, but Samael knew that he looked so far towards the unattainable that it really hadn't been expected that the one he had sworn to protect would haunt his dreams, both waking and in the darkest depths of sleep.

(O.o)

Draco reclined gracefully against his father's side, one strong arm loose about his waist and one hand gently petting his soft blond hair. He had been given his wand back by an unfamiliar plain brown owl a good five months after the Final Battle with the Dark Lord, but had told his father that he couldn't use the hawthorn wand that he had planned to kill Dumbledore with, that he had hurt so many people with. Instead, his father had nodded and put the wand in an easily breakable glass container on top of the mantle in the sitting room that they now sat in. He had entrusted his life to his parents after Potter had killed the Dark Lord and then consecutively went and vanished; Draco Malfoy had disappeared from the Wizarding world, only to reappear occasionally at his father's side a few times a year for the required social banquets and parties.

Before his mother had died, Draco had once overheard his parents speaking about him three or so years after the Final Battle: _"Lucius, dear...about our Dragon?" "Yes?" "I believe the War...broke him. We must do everything to keep him happy, to help him...I fear for what could happen if something were to happen to us. He is broken, and we must put him back together, but I fear for the possibility of doing so."_

Draco had swallowed thickly and retreated back into his rooms, not telling anyone of what he had heard. It worried him occasionally, and as Samael, still smirking smugly, stepped into the room and warded it behind him, Draco mulled over that conversation and his thoughts afterwards: was he really _broken_? Was that why he felt so oddly soft and worn out, even though he was all of thirty years old? Was the fact that he was broken the reason that he still felt as if he were a child? Draco sighed under his breath and pushed those thoughts away. He trusted his father and Samael to take care of him, because he knew now that he couldn't do it himself; he was broken, a shell of the man he had been.

Amycus Carrow leaned stiffly against the wall next to the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest and his black eyes watching Draco interact with his father. Alecto sat in an overstuffed high-backed armchair, legs crossed towards her brother and her eyes unfocused as she stared deep into the depths of the fire. Amycus inclined his head to Lucius and restrained from baring his teeth. "Find Harry Potter?" he growled, and Alecto's head lifted from where she had been staring into the fire, and her black gaze flickered over Samael's smug, handsome face and then to Lucius's smirking features.

Alecto frowned. "Why?"

Samael looked up from where he had been staring smugly at the intricately woven carpet in front of his feet, and leaned slightly forward. "Harry Potter has been missing for far too long." He knowingly repeated himself; those had been the words to convince Lucius that they should search for and find Harry and if they worked on Lucius, they should work on anyone. Amycus frowned, mirroring his sister.

"So?" he drawled, drawing his arms tighter around himself as he glanced between his sister and the three other Slytherins in the room. The glare Samael shot him might not be as potent as Snape's glares, but it still caused Amycus to frown in return but glance away anyway. Bastard; Amycus scowled and glared at the space between Samael's knees.

Samael leaned forward, lifting an eyebrow so smoothly that it looked as if it had always been placed in such a position. "We are well aware that you were a fervent supporter of the Dark Lord. However, he was defeated by Harry Potter. It is our duty to find him."

Amycus lifted his head and after thinking for a long minute, he slowly, carefully nodded.

(O.o)

Year: **2008  
****Ten Years Missing**

The snow was heavy against the windows as Tom swung his feet below the kitchen table bench, impatiently waiting for Dobby to return with his lunch—dinner, as his father would reprimand. Today was his eleventh birthday! His fathers were taking him out to dinner at some sort of really fancy Muggle place, but, right now, they were upstairs, doing Tom-didn't-want-to-know-what. He tapped the tip of his bone-white wand against the table, not putting any magic into his touch, but seeing the soft, nearly invisible sparks bounce up anyway. He hummed absently under his breath and tapped out a mindless rhythm, glancing at the ceiling right above him when he heard his dad's loud giggle and then looking right back down at the kitchen table. It was best to ignore his parents when their volume rose above what was usually acceptable.

Something tapped insistently against the window and Tom's head whipped around, his clear brow furrowing in confusion. He pushed to his feet and cautiously approached the window, wand white-knuckled in his right hand. Red eyes narrowed uncertainly as he looked through the window; was that an _owl_? Tom turned his head slightly to the side and called out, "Dobby?!"

With a soft _pop_, the always-eager house elf appeared and happily inquired, "What cans Dobby be doings for Master Tommys?"

Tom frowned and looked back at the window, where the _owl_? was still tapping insistently. "I think…that's an owl," he said lowly, and Dobby danced slightly as he jumped up into the sink—Tom's eyes widened; his father would _mutilate_ him if he did something that foolish—and opened the window. The owl, as well as a frigid burst of snarling wind and small ice pellets, fell in, and Dobby had to argue with the window as he forcefully shut it. The owl, a plain brown one, jumped to its feet—did owls have feet? Tom couldn't remember—and shook itself off before impatiently sticking out its leg. To which a letter, creamy parchment with his full name scrawled on in emerald ink, was attached. What in Merlin's hat was going on?

Dobby quickly took the letter from the owl's leg and told the owl, "You cans restes here until the nasty, nasty weathers clearses right up!" and then he turned to Tom, eagerly holding out the letter. "Master Tommys, this is yourses Hoggywarts letter!"

_Hogwarts_? Tom swallowed thickly and glanced through the doorway in the direction of the stairs. He slowly took the letter from Dobby's hand but didn't open it; swallowing nervously again, he met Dobby's excited, tennis ball-sized green eyes. "Can you get my dad?" he asked quietly, and slowly sat back down at the kitchen table as Dobby nodded eagerly and _pop_ped away. He didn't know he got a _letter_; his fathers had never mentioned anything about a letter.

On the front of the envelope, in emerald script:

_Thomas Riddle Flint  
__Second Bedroom  
__19 Pasture  
__Townshend_

Tom swallowed thickly and turned the envelope over, seeing an unfamiliar wax seal. He peered closer; it said Hogwarts and if his father's Latin training was correct, something about a sleeping dragon… He shook his head and turned his head as his dad, his father on his heels, stepped into the kitchen. Concerned emerald eyes darted from the letter in Tom's hands—wand abandoned on top of the kitchen table—to the plain brown owl sitting next to the sink. His dad took another step into the kitchen and suddenly, a smile stretched across his handsome face.

"You got your Hogwarts letter, Tom!" his dad cried, and ran over to him, wrapping his arms around Tom's shoulders and squeezing in congratulations. He stepped away, Tom seeing but not paying attention to the heavy hands that clamped down on his dad's hips, and slowly, the red-eyed boy broke the seal and opened the letter.

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_Thomas Riddle Flint  
__Second Bedroom  
__19 Pasture  
__Townshend_

_Dear Mr. Flint,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  
__Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall  
__Headmistress_

Tom thumbed to the list of necessary equipment—_three plain black robes, one wand_—and then looked back up to see his father's proud expression. He softened slightly at the pride in his father's flint grey eyes and slowly stood up, and allowed his fathers to wrap him in strong arms encased in the warm love of family.

(O.o)

Year:** 2009  
****Eleven Years Missing  
****Eight-and-half Hours Found**

Tom had just finished his mug of tea when the door to the guest room that his dad had placed the Malfoys in, and he looked eagerly up as the younger of the two—Draco, if Tom remembered correctly—stepped out of the room and looked idly around. Grey eyes fell on Tom as he quickly scrambled to his feet, abandoning his tea mug, and he nervously slipped closer to the Malfoy Heir. As he stepped closer, something flickered in front of his eyes and he nearly stumbled—_he lifted his wand, pulling his thin lips back from his pointed teeth, and meeting the young Malfoy's grey eyes, he hissed, "You have disappointed me, Draco," and he flicked his wand, breathing out, "_Crucio_," reveling in the screams_—and then strong arms were cupped in his armpits and he was hauled up against a tall, lithe body.

"Are you alright?" Draco asked uncertainly, brushing Tom's smooth black hair away from his face, and he bent forward at the waist, looking concernedly into Tom's wide red eyes. Tom twisted his hand into Draco's robes and swallowed thickly.

He tilted his head to the side. "Why would you ever disappoint me?" He did not ask what _Crucio_ was; Tom felt that it was an answer he certainly did not want to hear. Draco's eyes widened briefly and then narrowed. The Malfoy Heir glanced behind Tom, to the empty stairwell, and then slowly straightened, settling his small hands on Tom's shoulders.

A cool hand slipped into Tom's grasp and gently disengaged his hand from Draco's warm grey robes. Tom's eyes brightened when Draco did not let his hand go; instead, the Malfoy Heir led him to the room his dad had given them. "Father," Draco called lowly, and a blond head slowly turned to peer imperiously upon them from his stance in front of the lowly roaring fireplace. Did Lucius know that it was summer?

"Draco, Thomas," Lucius greeted lowly, fully turning around to look at them. Grey eyes flickered to their clasped hands but said nothing; Draco turned to Tom and pushed him into the room, gently shutting the door behind them, enclosing Tom in a room with two men he barely knew. He swallowed nervously and glanced around; his brow furrowed slightly at the sight of only one bed and how mussed it was. He had seen his parents' bed like that after a night in which his father needed _reassurance_, but weren't Draco and Lucius related? Not that Tom cared, but still…

Tom shifted as Lucius took a small step forward, one hand held out for Draco, who obediently went and tucked himself against his father's side. Tom blinked curiously—they acted just like his fathers—and cocked his head to the side. "Draco, why did you bring Mr. Flint to our room?"

Draco threw Tom a small, reassuring smile and then turned his head to rest his pointed chin on his father's broad shoulder. He murmured something that Tom didn't catch and Lucius lifted his chin slightly; his left arm tightened dangerously around Draco's thin waist. "Very well," Lucius murmured, and unraveled his arm from around Draco's waist. He stepped closer to Tom, keeping his eyes locked on Tom's nervous red ones, slowly rolled up his left sleeve and turned his arm over to bare his Dark Mark.

Red eyes widened impossibly and Tom let out a small gasp. He had seen that tattoo before, he _knew_ he had. Gently, he reached out and wrapped his hand around Lucius's wrist.

(O.o)

In the kitchen, Harry frowned and lifted his head from his mug of coffee. With a gasp, he abandoned it and ran upstairs, his husband following quickly behind. "Tom!" he barked out, throwing open the door to his son's room and their room, but seeing no one. Slowly, he approached the room he had given to the Malfoys to use, and Harry's fists clenched dangerously as his magic curled up around his body and twisting sensuously around Marcus's. The Lord Flint dropped his hand to his husband's shoulder and roughly squeezed.

His magic threw the door open and Harry's jaw clenched as his eyes blazed furiously. Marcus dropped his hand from his husband's shoulder and simply stood behind him, eyes locked forward.

(O.o)

Year:** 2008  
****Ten Years Missing**

Alecto Carrow rid herself of the glamour of the filthy Muggle woman—Monica Styf—as she dismounted her broom in front of Malfoy Manor. Amycus dropped smoothly to the ground next to her, and they shared a mildly amused glance—_Marcus Flint_ and _Harry Potter_? Unthinkable—before simultaneously shouldering their brooms and stalking up the sweeping walk leading to the only entrance to the outside; they were magic folk, after all, and having more than one outside entrance to a Manor was practically begging for an attack. Neither of them were allowed to _Apparate_ directly into the Manor, as Lucius still didn't entirely trust them. It wasn't as if they were blood bonded to him and couldn't betray him or anyone he cared about.

Lucius was standing next to his waif of a son, their arms tucked around one another's waists, as they looked out over the grounds they owned and the house elves eagerly working on the endless gardens. Amycus leaned on his broom and glanced over his shoulder at his sister and then up at the Lord Malfoy; pureblood propriety dictated that the higher class of individual spoke first, and as they were essentially servants—Amycus's blood prickled at that thought—they had no choice but to wait. Finally, Lucius turned to them and inclined his head slightly just as the unfamiliar Samael Prince _Apparated_ right next to them, leaning casually against a wide stone bowl filled with lilies, that smug look still smirking across his handsome face. "Amycus, Alecto," Lucius greeted deeply, and took a step forward from his son. Draco wilted gently but stayed in the place he had been left in; he was well aware of his place.

"My Lord," Amycus responded warily and he took a cautious step forward, handing his broom back to his sister, who took it with a mildly infuriated glare. Just because Amycus was older did _not_ give the right to boss her around! "The only information we were able to find was the possibility of Potter having a child." Lucius frowned slightly and Amycus lifted his chin, not backing down. He had been taught Occlumency by his father and after a few well-placed sacks of Galleons and a few meaningless threats, had also been instructed by one of the greatest Occulemens of their time, Severus Snape, who had been killed by the Dark Lord's snake. Not for the last time, Amycus regretted that. Snape never should have died. He had been one of the greatest assets the Dark side had, more loyal to the Dark Lord than Bellatrix—pity she was dead, really; foolish blood traitor Molly Weasley—and one of the most skilled Potions Masters that Amycus had personally ever seen. He hadn't been particularly fond of Snape as _person_, but as an asset, Snape had been utterly invaluable.

Amycus was also aware that if Snape was alive, he would have been helping them escape the Malfoy's clutches and either beginning to invent some sort of potion that would bring back the Dark Lord—Amycus knew better than to say _attempting_, as Snape had never simply _attempted_ to do something; he never _attempted_ anything, instead he actually _did_, something that Amycus had always admired—or either creating himself as the new Dark Lord or assisting in the creation of one. Pity the last Dark Lord had gone rather insane at the end and killed Snape. Amycus didn't miss _Snape_, but he did miss everything that the man had done for their side in the war.

Alecto took a small step forward, still holding both her and Amycus's brooms, and she lifted her chin slightly. "We were unable to actually _see_ the child, but the Mayor of the town did have memories of Potter walking with a small child, whom it is believed would be around ten now." She inclined her head slightly forward. "If at all possible, the school records at Hogwarts could be checked, as they do record the names of every magical child at birth."

Lucius nodded slightly and moved his gaze away from the sadistic siblings. He should really reward them for their efforts… Lucius turned his head to look at Samael's still smug stature; really, could the man be any more proud of himself? Then again, Lucius was well aware that Samael did not have all that many things to be proud of, and so allowed his friend his pride. "Samael, are there still Muggles in the basement from the Dark Lord's last raid?"

Samael's smug look turned to one of practiced sadistic pleasure. He had always enjoyed the after-effects of raids, when each Death Eater was given a Muggle to…use. Magic had always been his forte, Samael was well aware, and he had always enjoyed implementing it. He inclined his head briefly. "Yes, Lucius. Second dungeons, as a matter of fact." Samael lifted his chin slightly and met Amycus's deep-set burning black eyes. This could be…interesting.

(O.o)

As the final Muggle died with a haunting, echoing scream, Amycus whirled on Samael and roughly pinned the handsome man to the wall, both of them breathing rather heavily. He dipped his head and attacked the long throat with his teeth, eliciting a moan of both pain and pleasure as the teeth ripped a gash in his skin. He needed this. How long had it been since he had delved into the pleasures of the flesh? Too long, it seemed. Although Amycus Carrow would not be Samael's first, or even last choice—_Harry_—the man would have to do for now.

Alecto poked her head in and rolled her eyes; she quietly shut the door behind herself as she walked to the chambers Lucius had given her and her brother. Her fingers were covered in blood, and she absently played with it as she walked, rubbing it through her hair and then looking to see if it had any effect. She sighed slightly and warded their chamber doors behind her. Just as long as Samael didn't hurt her brother, it would be fine.

(O.o)

Year: **2007  
****Nine Years Missing**

Harry hissed in Parseltongue under his breath—the ability had not vanished with the demise of Voldemort, and instead actually grew to a point in which he was able to speak in the language of the snakes without looking at one and even realizing that he was speaking another language—as he dropped the latch for the three-horse slant stock trailer and stepped away. He was transporting two sheep and a cow to a Muggle family just outside of Wiltshire and getting the cow in the trailer had already set him back ten minutes. Stepping around the trailer, Harry scowled at the _FLINT TRANSPORT_ emblazoned in steel grey and Slytherin green on the side and then he stalked up to his favorite truck, a flint grey Ford F-250 diesel pick-up truck. He slipped in to the driver's seat and glared at the stick for manual transmission—not because he hated manual, but because he couldn't find Marcus this morning and he was going to be gone for two days—for a few long moments. He slammed the door shut and, pressing down the clutch and the brake, started the truck.

He let out a hiss of surprise when a callused hand grasped his chin and yanked his face around to meet Marcus's warm grey gaze. Mordred, he loved that color. The rumble of the diesel faded slightly as Marcus growled gently at him. Harry clicked his mind over to the English language as his husband opened his mouth to speak. He could understand English when thinking in Parseltongue, but horrendously unwell. "You did not say goodbye," Marcus told him, and Harry shrugged slightly, fully leaning his head into the hand.

"I looked for you."

Marcus snorted and stepped up onto the tread that they had been forced to add onto the truck because Harry was too short to get up into it without assistance. Marcus hadn't minded that, as he was more than willing to lift his small husband up into the truck, but Harry had reminded him that he couldn't always be there, and would Marcus really want someone else helping him? His possessive fury at _that_ question had made him attached treads to all of the trucks right then and there. "Not well enough," he pointed out, and pulled Harry's beautiful face closer for a rather satisfying kiss. Harry sighed into it and took his foot off the clutch as he attempted to lean closer, and the truck rumbled to a stall; Harry reared away from his husband and earnestly began checking the time and restarting the truck. Marcus smiled slightly and gently pressed a kiss to Harry's knuckles, reveling in the small hitch of breath that came from his beau. "Be waiting for your return," he told Harry, and then stepped away from the truck so that his Harry could back the trailer up and then leave.

At first, Marcus had hated that Harry left for his transport jobs. Left _him_. He had been worried—not that he would _ever_ even think of having a thought of such a thing—that someone more attractive, more appealing than he would steal _his_ Harry away, or that Harry would be hurt or one of the horses or cows or swine would hurt Harry and he wouldn't be there to help, but then that had happened and Marcus hadn't worried anymore. The truck Harry had before this one, a worn down white Dodge, had finally broken down just as Harry was turning onto the autobahn in Germany, and he had to expend nearly half of his magic—an incredible feat for Harry, who had more magic in his small body than Marcus had ever seen in his entire life—just getting the truck back to their land. Harry hadn't even been tired; Marcus remembered something about it feeling _good_ to exert that much magic, like it had been a marathon or something like that. Marcus didn't know what a 'marathon' was, but he assumed it had something to do with endurance.

The cow mooed in the trailer as Harry made the turn off their property and Marcus headed back to their house to find Tom.

(O.o)

Year: **2000  
****Two Years Missing**

Harry shifted nervously in his seat as the man across from him—Paul, was it?—glanced up at him before looking back down at the menu in his long-fingered hands. It had been three years since Harry had been on anything resembling a date, and Bertha—Tom's nanny, a portly and stern Muggle woman—had ordered him to go out for a night with her nephew. Harry didn't even want to _think_ about his disastrous relationship with Ginny—thank _Merlin_ he had broken it off with her before the hunt for the Horcruxes; he had done nothing so _refreshing_—and it had taken a very long mental self-talk with himself to realize that perhaps the reason that his track record with females, also known as Cho and Ginny, was because of one of two facts: he either just sucked completely at relationships or he was as straight as a circle. At first, the entire 'sucking at relationships' option had been rather appetizing, but Harry had slowly come to grips with the entire 'straight as a circle' option, and it was looking more and more like truth. And, hell, Harry was fine with that.

Emerald eyes flickered quickly over the countenance of his…date. High cheekbones, a bowl-cut hairstyle of shock black hair over pale skin and full pink lips, a remarkably strong chin and jaw line, and dark brown eyes that had sunbursts of amber and green around the pupil, and a worn grey jumper, black jeans and black boots. Harry imagined he didn't wear many other colors, but if he did, he'd look stunning in emerald green or crimson red. Harry shrugged mentally at that thought and looked down at his own menu, staring blandly at the vaguely familiar foods. Long, tapered fingers reached over and tapped one of the selections and Harry moved slightly away from it, lifting his face to meet Paul's amused complexion. "The soups are very good here," Paul informed him, and Harry looked back down at where the other man was pointing.

"You're pointing at the salads," Harry replied with an amused flash of his teeth, and the other man paused and immediately took his hand back, laying it limply in his lap underneath the table. "What soups?" he tried again, glancing up to meet the sunburst eyes.

Paul leaned slightly forward and cupped his chin in his fingers, watching Harry through his long fringe. Slowly, the man frowned at him and cocked his head slightly to the side. "The corn chowder is titillating to the palate." Paul nodded and looked down at his own menu, the fingers of his right hand running up and down the protective plastic. "I do not understand that phrase," Paul admitted, and Harry frowned gently. Who in Merlin's name had Bertha set him up with? This man was quirkier than Harry. "Why would something be stimulating to the palate when our taste buds reside on our tongues?"

"I don't...know," Harry responded quickly, "I'm not the one who...invents—comes up with the common phrases in our language." Suddenly, Paul lifted his head and smiled winningly at him, the blush of surprise blooming on his cheeks. The other man said nothing but nodded slightly, looking up as the casually dressed waiter stepped up to their table, throwing them a dirty look for being two men. Harry swallowed thickly and dropped his gaze; was this how gays were seen, as dirty and horrid? He wouldn't hide who he was, he _couldn't_, but perhaps...

"What do you two want?" the waiter asked gruffly, and Paul tilted his head up, a sunflower to the sun.

"I'll have the..." Paul looked back down to his menu and one of his fingers tapped the menu. "Spaghetti, with...vegetarian meatballs," he informed the waiter, and folded his menu closed, lifting it to hand to the waiter, who took it with a grunt as he whirled on Harry.

Harry smiled slightly and closed his own menu, quickly ordering the corn chowder and handing his menu to the waiter, who darted off with an irritated huff. He took a small sip of his Muggle Coke and dangled the cup from the tips of his fingers, looking curiously around the small Muggle establishment they were in for this _date_.

Paul watched his date with hooded dark eyes. This one was surely interesting, he mused idly, and looked up at the ceiling. Ah, a ceiling. Paul was rather fond of ceilings, as they kept roofs over his head, and he rather liked his head, as well as the skull inside of it, and the protective fluids surrounding his brain, but he did not like his brain. It was the fault of his brain for turning him into this horrid waste of a human, into this disgusting, socially anxious—food? Paul lowered his head quickly and looked rather pleased at the sight of his spaghetti. Harry nodded as his corn chowder was placed in front of him, and the waiter stalked off again, leaving them to their meals. "What do you do?" Harry asked innocently as Paul lifted his fork and investigated how the tines caught the light.

"I help my fiancée research for her book on sexual sadism," Paul replied, and stuck his fork directly into the center of one of the not-meat meatballs.

Harry coughed and Paul's sunburst eyes shot immediately to him. "You're _engaged_?" Harry bit out; this was only a date, but _still_!

Paul nodded and swirled the not-meat meatball through the spaghetti, shooting Harry a lop-sided grin. "She wanted to have me go on a date with a male before we're married," Paul informed him, eyes softening dramatically. Harry watched with an amused smile; he wanted someone to look at him like that, with eyes so soft and full of love that Harry wouldn't be able to look away. Paul snorted slightly and affectionately shook his head. "She wanted to make sure I'm actually heterosexual." He rolled his sunburst eyes and sliced the meatball in half with the side of his fork, eating one half as Harry began spooning the corn chowder. "Like I don't know the meaning of the word." He lifted his fork and pointed the tines towards Harry's face, making his point, "The word 'heterosexual' was first used—etymology—in 1892, in C.G. Craddock's translation of Krafft-Ebbing's _'Psychopathia Sexualis.'_ The noun is recorded in use from the 1920s, but not in common use until the 1960s; the colloquial shortening _hetero_ is from 1933." Paul nodded knowingly to the bemused look on Harry's face and looked to continue, but a lifted, callused hand stopped him.

"I get it," Harry replied with an amused smirk, shaking his head as he lifted another spoonful of the corn chowder to his lips. It really was very good. "What's your fiancée like, Paul?"

Paul shrugged idly and spun his fork in the spaghetti. "Her name is Sarah. Sarah Walker." He smiled briefly at that and then explained the expression to Harry, "I always found—not because it was lost—to be rather ironic, for she never really moves, except for her dogs, or her work, or, well..." a beatific look overtook Paul's handsome face and his high cheekbones flushed with color; Harry smirked slightly and spooned a bit more of the chowder into his mouth, reveling in the expressions that passed over the man's face, hoarding them like small candies. "Me." Paul's eyes darted away and he dropped his fork inside the bowl. He looked down and a flash of surprise overtook his face; how had he finished already? Had he really been talking that much? What would Harry think of him? Only Sarah had been able to stand him for lengths of time without becoming overly irritated...Paul glanced up to see Harry looking far beyond amused and he visibly relaxed, shooting Harry a mild smirk. "She'll be picking me up after this. You can meet her, if you like."

Harry nodded and scooped out the last of the chowder from the bowl, and after he swallowed it, he primly set his spoon down next to the bowl and delicately wiped his mouth with his napkin. "It would be a pleasure," he informed Paul, who smiled slightly at him again.

(O.o)

Sarah Walker was even shorter than Harry, by around two inches, but her presence was stifling and overpowering. She reminded him startlingly of Snape—something misted in a frown in the back of Harry's mind at the thought of the man who had died simply because of an insane megalomaniac's suspicion, of the man who had given everything to keep Harry safe—with her small, cold evergreen eyes and thin-lipped mouth, the sarcastic comments and the imperious air. However, she softened dramatically at Paul, wrapping his soft hand in one of her hard, ink-stained hands, allowing him to press a kiss to the corner of her lips with an obliging roll of her eyes. Her light orange hair was even the same length as Snape's, brushing her broad shoulders, long and lank, greasy even. She seemed to be the female version of Snape.

An arched eyebrow rose after she dropped her hand from Harry's, absently rubbing it against the front of her plain blue t-shirt, and she smirked wickedly at Harry. "Did he accost you?" she asked idly, and Paul blushed, roses blooming on his pale cheeks, as he ducked slightly behind his fiancée's strong shoulder, looking like an embarrassed, overgrown child attempting to hide behind his much smaller mother.

Harry shook his head with an amused grin. "No," he replied quickly. "I don't think he's gay, personally."

Paul lifted his chin slightly and frowned. "I am quite happy and carefree, thank you."

Sarah rolled her eyes and nudged his side with her elbow. "No, Mr. Potter, I do not believe he is homosexual. Thank you, however, for helping me make sure."

Harry inclined his head briefly and pulled his truck keys out of his pocket, palming them. "My pleasure."

(O.o)

Year: **2009  
****Eleven Years Missing  
****Eight-and-half Hours Found**

Samael lifted his head as the sound of a door being thrown open filtered through his wards. With a small frown and a quick glance in the mirror to reassure himself of his glamour, he stepped out of his room and stalked to the room Harry had given the Malfoy's. In the doorway, Marcus stood like stone behind Harry's furious form, and Samael lifted his gaze from Harry's beautiful visage to see Tom staring at Lucius's Dark Mark. His own hand went immediately to his wand—Severus Snape's wand had been destroyed after his death; Lucius had dragged Samael to Knockturn Alley for a new wand a few weeks after he had been revived from the coma—and he stood next to Harry and Marcus, simply watching.

Harry lifted his chin, fists clenching and his knuckles whitening as his magic flared about him; Samael could feel the man's face tightening through the magic bleeding from his form. "You have five seconds to tell me _exactly_ what you are doing before I have the wards painfully remove you and your son from my property." His voice was low and cold and cruel; a shudder ran down Samael's back and his magic twitched around him, reaching out to soothe Harry's.

Lucius gently straightened, Tom's hand still clasped about his wrist, and met Harry's blinding emerald gaze. Draco stepped up next to his father, creating an impenetrable Malfoy shield; Marcus saw the movement and pushed through Harry's suffocating magic to stand next to him, the three men an unyielding wall. Tom looked between his fathers, the man next to them, and then turned his head to see the two beautiful blond men simply staring at his dad. What was going on? He hoped he wasn't in trouble; his dad would have his father punish him and Tom never liked his father's punishments. They always hurt.

The five seconds passed and Harry lifted a hand, but Samael shot out his own long fingers and gently wrapped them around Harry's wrist, pleading with his gaze as Harry's eyes slid over to meet his. _They're all I have,_ he tried to tell the younger man, and Harry's jaw clenched as he slowly nodded, turning back to glare at Lucius. He dropped his hand and Samael did not release his own grasp, stricken inside at the warmth that seeped through him from the warmth of Harry's skin. Marcus glanced over at Samael and roughly entwined his arm around Harry's waist, his rough hand gently resting against Samael's long fingers. None of the three men moved from their position; Samael would not be able to move, even if forced.

Draco delicately cleared his throat, an action only a Malfoy could pull off. "Potter—" Twin glares shut his mouth immediately at the use of the wrong last name and Draco's jaw clicked as he attempted to say. Finally, "_Harry_"—the name was said with an emotion effecting disdain—"I—we—believe that your son is regaining...his...the Da—_his_ memories."

Harry's teeth ground against one another as his gaze dropped to Tom's. "Your room, now, Thomas. Dobby will lock you in." Tom nodded and took his leave, and as Dobby appeared inside his room to close his door and lock it, Tom collapsed on his unmade bed, staring at his tingling hand.

Draco's mouth fell slightly open. "You _lock_ your son in his room?" he gasped out, and both Harry and Marcus bared their teeth at the Malfoy Heir.

"I do not judge your..._father_ on how he..._raises_ you; do not judge me on how I raise mine," Harry ground out, and both Malfoy men shifted uncomfortably. Marcus growled gently at them as Harry stalked over to the two-person couch. Marcus dropped into the corner and yanked Harry into his lap, and then pulled Samael down next to them, forcing the elder man to lean against them with an arm slung about the man's trim hips. Harry glanced at the door and it slammed shut; Lucius and Draco looked to one another and Lucius gracefully sat in the overstuffed armchair closest to the door, Draco winding down to settle elegantly at his father's feet, leaning his head against his lover's knee. He looked at the three men in front of him, startled at how well they meshed together; Draco wondered if this was something that Harry and Flint were doing just to mess with their long-time family friend, or if they really meant it. He doubted Flint would let Harry have someone in their bed if it was only a joke; the hulking Chaser had always been possessive of what he regarded as his.

"Explain," Harry ordered, and Marcus dropped his head to drag his clenched teeth along the delicate skin of Harry's neck. Samael gasped soundlessly as a small hand wrapped over Marcus's, resting right above his heart, the thumb gently caressing his skin through his shirt. _Please_, he begged, _have this be forever._

Lucius looked down to his son, who glanced up at him and them immediately back to the three men on the couch in their quarters. Draco replied, "I believe that your son is regaining the memories of the Dark Lord." He brought up his left arm and rested his forearm against the length of his father's thigh, leaning his arm on his lightly curled fingers. Harry's face remained furious, an impassable mask with no reaction to the thought that someone could think his son to be the reincarnated Dark Lord. "It is quite obvious that Thomas is..._was_ the Dark Lord. He has the same wand, his eyes are the exact same shade of red—you know, no two complete Dark wizards, that's what makes their eyes red, complete immersion in Dark and Black magics, have the same shade of red eyes—and he even acts similarly to the Dark Lord my father knew before the First Fall."

Harry frowned gently. "First Fall?" he inquired gently, and shifted himself on Marcus's lap, pulling Samael closer so that the man leaned fully against both of them. Harry rested his cheek against the soft black hair and watched the two Malfoy men.

Lucius nodded slightly. "Yes. Your...defeat of the Dark Lord on Hallowe'en of 1981 was the First Fall."

"Was there a Second Fall?"

Lucius lifted his chin. "Eleven years ago, in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. It is known as the Final Fall, as all hope was given up for the Dark Lord's return." Grey eyes flicked to Samael, who dropped his own gaze to his lap, where Marcus's heavy arm tightened gently around him. Although none of the other men, except for Harry, suspected, Marcus regarded the conversation and the two Malfoy men with understanding ears and curious steel grey eyes behind dull black fringe as he gently nibbled on his beau's neck. Nobody thought all that much of Marcus Flint, except for Harry, the troll of the Slytherin House. His eight years at Hogwarts had made the desired impression on Draco: a stupid, malicious and unable troll. He could now use that against the Malfoys, Marcus reasoned pleasantly, and carved his lips into a sneer against the soft skin of Harry's neck. _His_ Harry's neck.

Harry nodded, wrapping a small hand around the thick forearm wrapped about his own hips. "I was under the impression that the Malfoy family had defected from Voldemort."

Both Malfoy men nodded. "He no longer served our ideals," Lucius informed Harry, and Marcus grumbled in amusement against Harry's neck.

"Tell me how you knew Thomas—"

"Was the Dark Lord?" Draco interrupted, receiving glares of idle anger from both his father and Harry, who nodded slightly. Draco shrugged elegantly; Harry wondered if there were actions that only Malfoys could pull off. Perhaps they were passed down through the bloodline. "After the Final Fall, it was chaos, especially when you vanished from the Wizarding world. No one knew what you had taken from the Great Hall or why the Dark Lord's body crumpled into dust when we attempted to move it. The ashes were incorporated into the base of a stone in Azkaban, in the dungeons where Dementors still guard, in case the Dark Lord's soul returned." Harry nodded in approval, looking mildly impressed. "The Death Eater children were unable to finish our final year at Hogwarts in the year we were all supposed to, due to duties, and in 1999, we were allowed to return. The new History of Magic Professor—Binns somehow retired; there was a rumor going around Slytherin that McGonagall sacked him—explained the entire history of the Dark Lord, including his name." Draco trailed off as he murmured, "Thomas Marvolo Riddle..."

Lucius nodded. "And his reaction to the Dark Mark...well, Mr. Potter—Flint, my pardon, it was quite obvious."

Marcus looked up, lifting his head from Harry's neck, leaving behind a bright red mark that Lucius's eyes flashed amusedly to and then to the Chaser's rather unfortunately hideous face. Marcus growled out, "What was his reaction, 'xactly, Malfoy?"

Lucius lifted his chin and straightened his back, pushing his shoulders back enough to be proper. "He kissed it."

(O.o)

**End Chapter Four  
**_Morsus_: Latin for pain.

**Review Responses:  
**Emily Rose: Thank you a ton for your review! Other than Snarry, with and without Lucius as a triad addition, MF/HP has become one of my favorite pairings. While I've never found Snarry boring—except for the horrifically clichéd versions—I do find Drarry to be utterly boring, as its so overwritten that it's no fun anymore. Sigh. Thank you!  
joyellbell27: Thank you! Here's that update.

Read and Review, please!


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